Keep Me Dreaming
by Kinthinia
Summary: The story of how Clint Barton, famed Hawkeye, came to own a farm. From losing Phil to gaining him all over again. Fic starts off after the events of the Avengers, and follows the timeline through the next three movies and season two of Agents of SHIELD. (Side pairing Steve/Bucky)
1. Oh, What a Life

Oh, What a Life

If he'd been just a hair faster, if he hadn't hesitated New York wouldn't be in pieces right now. Clint grimaced and focused on hauling away the rubble. Volunteers were sorely needed. Rogers was working with the cops on clearing out the intersections; Stark had thrown some money at several repair crews and sent them in. Banner was in the wind and Thor was back in Asgard as far as S.H.I.E.L.D knew. It was a rare show of New Yorker spirit as the city came together to start healing. Clint preferred to avoid the crowded areas, places where Rogers was working –the volunteers were constantly flocking to him, asking him about the battle and for his autograph. So far, not many people had recognized him for which he was grateful. He wasn't some hero like Captain America. Not this time.

Clint shoveled another clump of debris away, turning his focus to the glass. It had been three days since the attack. Hopes for survivors were dimming. Rogers was leading the rescue efforts, searching through ruined building after building, in the thick of volunteers. Clint was keeping to the fringes of the clean up efforts, focusing on glass and building fragments. Day one of the clean up had focused on getting rid of the alien remains; between S.H.I.E.L.D and the military's involvement, they'd taken care of that within twenty-four hours. After he was done with the clean up crew, he wasn't sure exactly what he was going to do.

When he went in to debrief, Sitwell took one look at him and shook his head. "You're better off helping Cap right now. Report back when you're done with that." Sitwell paused, "And grab some casual clothes Barton, you don't need to look like a post-apocalyptic survivor." That was four days ago.

Each night when the shifts were done, Clint headed to the first motel he'd found. On the first night, he walked home on autopilot before he realized that his shitty apartment was a pile of wreckage. It just figured. He spent the next three hours travelling between motels and hotels in the area only to be denied at the fist eight because he was smelly and covered in filth. He didn't have any spare clothes to change into or a place to shower. He couldn't physically set foot on the helicarrier where he had a change of clothes and a room with his name on it –he didn't need to try to know that it would end with either a panic attack or a full out brawl with the other agents. It was too soon. At least the New York office was still standing, but they didn't have any available rooms since the helicarrier agents needed a place to be stationed. (Clint had actually called after the fifth hotel threatened to escort him off the premises –you would have thought stopping the alien invasion counted for something.)

Of the Avengers, Clint spent the least time in the spotlight. Covered in sweat and grime from the day, wearing a spare S.H.I.E.L.D uniform that was too loose, he wasn't exactly recognizable. Especially with the lack of purple. But his suit had been in even worse shape after the Battle. It was at the ninth motel he tried when he was recognized, ushered into the best room and provided with some spare clothes and towels. It was to that motel he returned, focusing on the physical exhaustion dragging his body down. Anything was better to think about than what had happened four –five? –days ago.

But every step he took, every time S.H.I.E.L.D brushed him off, he couldn't help but think about what Coulson would have done instead. The lump that suddenly seized his throat was becoming far too familiar and Clint paused for half a step, taking a brief, deep, breath before he shuffled into the bathroom. He wouldn't know what Coulson would do because Coulson was dead. Clint might as well have released the arrow himself.

Clint undressed and showered thoroughly, watching the black dust disappear down the drain. Under the hot water, he felt his muscles gradually relax. As much as he ever relaxed these days. He dried off and wandered to the single bed, collapsing on it, careless of his nudity. He was a superhero dammit. They should just be privileged, having a superhero grace one of their rooms. And if a cleaning lady walked in, well, good for her. She could tell the story to her children and grandchildren for years to come.

His head had barely touched the pillow before he was asleep. And it couldn't have been hardly more than five minutes before he was jerking awake, his clenched hands yanking at the blankets in an aborted dream-gesture. Clint took a minute before exhaling slowly, forcing his body to relax from his feet to his head. It was nothing new, the nightmare. He fought against Loki, tried to turn and aim his bow at the alien but couldn't. It was true too, he had, so many times, tried to turn his aim on the foreign god but his body wasn't his own. Clint smiled self-deprecatingly. Not like anyone was likely to hear that story or remember it. Not at S.H.I.E.L.D.

Despite his reluctance and still racing heart, sleep swallowed him whole and spat him out again a few hours later. "Phil!" he shouted hoarsely, staring blankly at the spot where his handler had been seconds ago. His body was drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around his body, the only remnants of his body's physical struggle.

Clint groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. He needed something that was more distracting that this clean-up work. Preferably someplace with as few agents as he could find. Ignoring one or two hateful glares was easier than thirty or a hundred. More than ten of those glares going around, had the hair on his neck standing up and his fingers twitching for his bow. Not everyone was happy with his work. His brief foray to Sitwell's office had proven that one.

Three days of interrupted sleep and hard labor in the day, allowed him to fall asleep easily. Unfortunately it never did anything to stop the nightmares. By six am, Clint had given up even pretending to sleep. He threw on some fresh clothes, grabbed his motorcycle keys and drove to the New York office. There were always agents on duty and awake, and sometimes even asleep, in their offices.

Clint winced at the thought, a memory of Coulson asleep at his desk worming its way to the forefront of his mind. Coulson passed out over a stack of paperwork or in front of his computer used to be a common sight. Everyone knew to steer clear of waking him up. Clint used liked to make a challenge for himself, seeing how many sugar packets he could balance on Coulson without waking him up. He only ever made it to four; which was just one packet too many for how Coulson took his coffee.

Coulson would shoot him a sleepy glare. "Least you could do is bring me a coffee for this sugar," he would yawn.

And Clint would smirk and set down the coffee in front of him. "Me, sir? I didn't do anything."

It was their way to say good morning.

Of course, Coulson always knew he was lying. But he would just take his coffee and start pouring the sugar in. Clint could remember the first time he'd decided to try and take Coulson on. He was still a probie at the time when he'd snuck through the vents and started raining sugar packets down on the unconscious man. Just the day before, one of the senior agents had chewed Clint out for making too much noise near Coulson's office and informed Clint that if he wanted to avoid jail he shouldn't piss Coulson off. Naturally, it was the first thing Clint set to do.

But the older agent had just heaved a sigh. "Barton, if you have enough time to shoot sugar packets at senior staff, you have enough time to hit the mats. Go."

Something about Coulson's tone had him obeying and heading down to the gym –on his own time, of course. When he got there, Coulson was already waiting at the mats, his brows drawn together as he radiated disapproval. Clint stepped up, about to snark when Coulson lashed out, knocking Clint's feet out from under him.

"Perhaps you should spend more time practicing hand-to-hand than firing sugar packets at senior staff?" Coulson smirked at him.

Clint got to his feet, scowling. "You make it sound like I go around throwing sugar at all the senior agents or something. And I don't need the practice; you caught me off guard is all."

"Ah, yes. Because I acted unpredictably." Coulson had arched a brow and waited for a moment before he struck at Clint again.

Expecting the blow this time, Clint blocked it hastily. Coulson didn't leave him enough time to draw breath before he was attacking again, going through the paces with him until they were both drenched in sweat. Coulson was clearly the better fighter, having gotten through Clint's defenses more often than his sparring teacher ever had. Clint hadn't even been able to go on the offensive, he was left on the defensive as his brain whirled through what he could do to get on the offensive to try and take Coulson down.

"Don't need the practice?" Coulson had quipped.

"I just needed a challenge," Clint muttered under his breath.

Once pleasant, the memory was now stained and battered with the recent death of Phil Coulson. Clint shook his head, dismissing the memories as he hurried through the halls to Sitwell's office. The man was as much of a workaholic as Coulson had ever been. Probably part of the reason the two of them had gotten along as well as they did despite having only been in the field at the same time once or twice. Given the recent number of deaths within the agency, Sitwell had been given a temporary level eight security clearance which meant that he was the highest ranked agent on sight at the New York office.

Fury and Hill hadn't been able to stay around to deal with the clean-up given that the World Security Council wanted to be debriefed on what exactly happened at the Battle of New York. As though they didn't already know. It made the situation more difficult considering their limited command situation. Hill was apparently in charge of overseeing the repairs on the helicarrier –and she had left yesterday for Washington, D.C. Which meant, for the time being, Sitwell was in charge. Unsurprisingly, Sitwell was still at his desk, typing out what looked like a report of some sort. There were going to be a lot of those going around soon.

"You got any real work for me to do?" Not that cleaning up NYC was less meaningful, less valued, but it wasn't _enough_.

"Does it look like I've got the time right now, Barton?" he snapped. Sitwell pulled back, swiveling in his chair to address him. He sighed, rubbing his face. "Nobody is sleeping well, psych's got their hands full with traumatized civilians and agents who survived by the skin of their teeth. You need some work to do? Ask Captain Rogers or Stark –you five are supposed to be out there being something bigger, better. Y'know, in memory of Phil at least. For Christ's sake Barton, we're all busy here. Find something to do. If we need you, we'll call you."

Clint stiffened. "Understood," he said flatly before turning and walking out. Message understood, loud and clear.

Natasha had already been sent on a series of Intel missions; she wasn't likely to be back for a month or two. Rogers had dedicated himself to helping the city recover; he was in the news every day. Stark had paid people to do his part, sending them out in red and gold costumes so everyone would be able to tell his team apart while he went about repairing his tower. Banner was in the wind. And Sitwell just wanted Clint to stand around shoveling rocks every day?

Natasha was gone and Phil was dead. He needed something to _do_. Like hell he was going to go to Rogers and ask for something to do. The city needed repairing, needed to be tidied up. But everywhere Clint looked, he just saw the damage that he _let_ The Bastard inflict. Every other Level 7 agent was out in the field. But not Clint, not the famed Hawkeye, S.H.I.E.L.D traitor. The one who killed thirty-two agents, including Agent Coulson. No one had the time to deal with a traitor; no one who was around S.H.I.E.L.D was willing to associate with him.

Before he knew it, Clint was on his bike and speeding out of the city. He needed something to _do_. If Nat needed to find him, she'd be able to. Wherever he ended up. Taking a break from S.H.I.E.L.D was not what he wanted, but maybe it was what he needed. Some distance to see what he had done, what had happened. As he drove out of the city on autopilot, he tried to gather his thoughts and come up with some sort of a plan. His safe houses would be good rest stops, but none of them were what he was looking for. He didn't want to be stuck in a noisy suburb or one of the cheap, rodent/roach infested apartments he'd bought in case he ever hit an emergency with S.H.I.E.L.D. He only had three safe houses, each of which he was able to buy cheaply and never bothered to repair. The nearest one was in Ohio, then Nebraska and finally Nevada. None of which would give him anything to do, other than spend enough money to raise eyebrows at. They needed a lot of repairs that Clint never had any time to do.

But Ohio was closest to New York. He had a spare set of clothes there, an identity he could take with him and some extra cash. Not that he would leave them out in the open; they were tucked away safely in an armed safe. If he was ever on the run, he needed workable back-up plans. When he was a contract killer, he'd had a few too many times when his employers turned on him and he had no where to disappear and lay low. So he purchased his first safe house as soon as he got a gig in Peru –he bought his Nevada safe house. Back at his apartment in New York, he used to keep his spare cash tucked under his mattress.

Despite what Nat said when she found out, he was _not_ an eighty year old woman. He just liked having cash on hand and it wasn't as though he left his apartment unlocked and inviting for thieves. Just because she could break in, didn't mean it was… the worst plan ever. Except for the part where his apartment had been crushed under a giant alien and his money was probably long gone by now. Clint winced. So maybe it hadn't been the best plan.

At his first gas station stop, Clint checked through his wallet and made sure he would have enough cash to last him to Ohio. He wouldn't. He used his personal credit card for each gas stop until he was in the middle of Pennsylvania before he switched to cash and drove to Ohio. By the time he got to his apartment, he was half starved and ready to pass out again so that was the first thing he did. The couch wasn't the most comfortable one, but it was better than the floor. At least he could tell that the rats hadn't made it to the couch. Small mercies.

He woke up in the middle of the night, sitting upright, reaching towards someone who was never going to be there. He swallowed back Phil's name and slowly lay down, closing his eyes. Clint wasn't sure what it was, but he woke up another three times that night. Once to his neighbors having enthusiastic sex, another to the scurrying of rats across the floor and by the third time, it was his neighbors going at it again. Loudly.

His stomach growled at him. There was no point in tossing and turning for another couple of hours. Not if he was going to keep being woken up anyways. Clint rummaged around in the dusty cupboards, searching through cans of soup. It would do if he was in a tight spot, but he wasn't really. And somehow vegetable soup at eight in the morning just wasn't appealing. He checked over his clothes from yesterday and changed into them before packing two of the spare changes he kept here. Clint swiped his thumb over the lock pack and then inserted the correct password before taking out a quarter of his spare cash.

It took him twenty minutes to locate the nearest diner and he ate a quick breakfast before he was back on the road again. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. And driving, so far, seemed to keep his mind off of everything that was going on.

Perhaps of all the things Clint had done in his life, none of them were quite as simple as driving to Iowa. It took nine and a half hours. It was well after dark when he found the place, a worn for sale sign hanging from at the beginning of a driveway. Of all places, it was _Iowa_ where he found the answer that he hadn't known he was looking for. At least it wasn't near Waverly. He drove up to the farm and it was as though some part of him settled. He could _do_ something here.

Grow some vegetables or whatever it was that farmers did. Maybe buy some cattle or something. He could build a life here, in the middle of nowhere, make up for the destruction he caused in New York. From what he could see, it was a two storey farm house with a white wrap-around porch. There were no picket fences or nosey neighbors. Seemed like as good a place as any.

And if S.H.I.E.L.D needed him, they could call. If. The Avengers –Clint paused at that. If Tony really wanted to find him, he probably could. But no sense being obvious about it. Clint went through his wallet, pulling out one of his aliases that he regularly used for banking. He didn't want to end up arrested and come back to nothing. So he had a contingency plan in Flint Martin. And more than enough money to pay for the farm –which was, thankfully, privately listed.

* * *

><p><em>I promise two things; this story will not only take place on the farm; there will be Phlint and there will be action sequences. Nearest action scene to you? Approximately chapter three.<em>


	2. Summertime Sadness

Summertime Sadness

The story of how Clint Barton, famed Hawkeye, became a farmer was as simple as placing a call the next morning followed by an exchange of money. The worst part of everything was that the house was yellow. A pale frou-frou yellow. It was offensive. The farmhouse was also fairly worn down; there were some leaks in the roof the owner –Kase –had confessed, and if Clint wanted any animals he'd have to repair the fences first. But there was one small patch of well maintained soil that he could use to start gardening with. Clint surveyed his recent purchase; honestly, the house looked about the way he felt right now.

The interior of it wasn't much better, dusty with a healthy dose of cobwebs. Oh the plus side; there were no roaches or rodents around. The owner of the property lived a few miles away at a bigger farm with his family these days; he'd just been waiting for someone to take the property off his hands.

"You need help with anything just holler," Kase had said warmly. "Oh and mind you the coyotes sometimes get close around these parts –they wiped out our chickens last winter."

"Yeah, sure, I'll keep an eye on that. Definitely."

"If you spot any cats, don't be too alarmed. Folks sometimes drop 'em off out here. Most of em turn into mousers, so don't you be worrying about any of them mice."

Clint nodded along. It had been ages since he'd been anywhere rural, since he had to worry about something as mundane as coyotes. The last time he'd been close enough to an animal to fear for his life, it was a genetically mutated wolf-beast that was about to eat a baby agent's face off. Coyotes couldn't really compare. Anyways, it wasn't like with the change of his identity he lost his skills. He was still the best shot in the world –gun, rifle or bow. Most likely even with a slingshot, but he'd never gotten desperate enough to try it.

"Thanks Brandt. I've got your number, call you if I have any troubles, got it."

"An' keep an eye out for that cat!"

"Yes." Clint paused awkwardly then. Since he had first met Fury and Coulson, there hadn't been another agent he'd even tried to show some respect to. Not many of them had earned it but somehow, with this guy, just a few minutes with him and Clint was trying to call him sir.

He hid his grimace of distaste, as Kase waved his goodbyes and walked off. Clint couldn't even excuse it as being habitual. When had S.H.I.E.L.D turned him into such a decent human being? Used to be he scared off people without even trying. God, he felt old. Clint rubbed at his face.

Clint brought his small bag in from his bike. His spare change of clothes, collapsible bow and handgun. He set them on the kitchen table after a moment of indecision before going back to his bike and driving to Newton. He'd spent the night at a hotel there and they had a few boutiques that would give him what he needed. Clean sheets, hardware supplies, cleaning supplies and food. And some vegetable seeds or something to plant. Maybe a book or two on gardening for dummies. That had to be a thing, right?

It was totally a thing. Clint stared at the selection in front of him, refusing to be intimidated by what seemed to be fifty variations off the same book. Gardening herbs, gardening organic, gardening for beginners etc. He skimmed across the titles before grabbed the beginner's edition and tossing it into the cart as he walked down into the supermarket for some groceries. It wasn't until he got to the till that he really paid attention to his purchasing choices.

"You attending the university?" the cashier asked with a knowing smirk as he rang the case of ramen and macaroni through.

Clint flashed him a scowl. The cashier couldn't have been out of college yet. He needed to get a start on repairing the farm –he didn't have time to pretend he was capable of cooking gourmet meals. Not for some college kid's appreciation. He was a superhero –he had bigger problems to deal with. Clint paid, grabbed his bags and put them in the trunk. There wasn't much room left in the trunk after his groceries and cleaning supplies went in. And he still needed the hardware supplies. Clint checked over the few battered saddlebags he'd used for years to make sure they were free of holes. A couple of them definitely weren't but he could make do with the few supplies that would fit.

"Aww, bike," he sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. This hadn't been a problem in New York.

Clint walked across the street and into the hardware store. Between making sets and doing the simple repairs around the circus, Clint had a rudimentary understanding of how to fix things. After living as a choice-y hitman though, some of the shelters he took were quite leaky. Whenever he could afford it, he would talk with the handymen working in the hardware stores to try and figure out what to do. (That was after the third shingle he'd attempted to hammer into place had fallen off for as many days in a row). Trial and error with hammer and nails had yet to fail him in most endeavors. Besides, it wasn't like he could carry much more than a hammer and several nails. He paused next to the roof patch supplies and grabbed two cans before adding a half dozen shingles to his cart. On his way to the till, he spotted a seed stand and paused in front of it. Potatoes, those would be good. He grabbed a pack of seeds, looking over the other selections. Carrot, lettuce, onion, celery and cucumber seeds joined the potato seeds.

After he made his purchases and was halfway back to his new home, he realized what he had forgotten. Clean sheets. Oh well, they weren't necessary at this point. It was the start of summer –it wasn't going to get cold tonight that was for sure. And he didn't have anyone to impress. Unless Natasha felt like dropping in for a surprise visit, but in that case it was just Nat –and she would need clean sheets for the spare room. Or his head would roll. She spent enough time on missions in and out of the country, that when she was on her free time, she would never willingly pass up the opportunity for luxury items. Like a bed with fresh, clean sheets.

Clint pressed a little harder on the accelerator. She probably wouldn't be dropping in tonight or tomorrow. Hopefully. He couldn't remember a time he hadn't had a spare bed made or a specific set of sheets specifically for Natasha, but he knew there must have been a point when he was unprepared for her visit. At his apartment in New York, he'd found a custom made Nutcracker set of bedding that he kept for her. It was gone now, too. Clint eased on the accelerator as he turned up the road to his new home.

Everything was gone, really. Except S.H.I.E.L.D but they didn't have the time to deal with him. He didn't fault them for it. Clint parked and hauled the groceries and supplies inside. So long as Natasha didn't drop in for a visit, everything would be fine for a while. Clint was going to be fine.

At that moment, his ringtone cut through the silence. Clint hesitated as he pulled it from his pocket. _Please don't be Nat_, he thought. On occasion, after a rough mission, she would call or text just to say: "I'm at the airport. Be here." But the caller was a number he didn't recognize.

Cautiously he answered.

"Flint!" Kase enthused. "Y'know, I got to thinkin'… I got this here old truck. And I noticed you had a bike but if you're gonna be on the farm for awhile, you'll need somethin' a little more durable."

"Well I… I suppose," Clint replied, trying to remember when he had given his number to the other man.

"Perfect! She's a little dinged up, but she runs fine. I'll bring 'er over tomorrow morning, how's that?"

"Sounds great," Clint agreed.

"See ya then, Flint."

Clint hit the end call button, staring at his cell phone for a minute before he shoved it back into his pocket. He'd taken the tracker out in the middle of Pennsylvania and disabled every tracking enabled function on his phone. He wasn't invested in disappearing from S.H.I.E.L.D or the Avengers, but he didn't want to know about the farm either. It felt too personal to share with them, now. If Phil… if Coulson had still been around, he would have told him. But then, if Coulson had been alive, Clint never would have had to buy the farm in the first place.

Clint slammed his hands down onto the counter. It didn't matter now. He pulled out the roof patch and grabbed a couple shingles before heading outside. The railing, like the rest of the porch, had probably been a pristine white once but was now greyer in color. It could use a fresh coat of paint, or two, probably. Clint tucked the roof patch into his pocket before he stepped onto the railing, shimmied up the post and onto the porch roof. Looking up at the roof of the building, he spotted the attic window. Might have been faster than this. Clint grabbed onto the edge of it, testing to make sure it would support his weight before he pulled himself up and got to work.

It was hot, messy work and might have been better to do on a cooler day. At least it was easy to spot the shingles that needed replacing –they were completely missing and a couple of them came loose under his touch. He was going to need more, but for now this would have to do. The gaping holes were covered up and the loose shingles were still attached. For now. Clint dropped onto the porch roof and eased down the column until he was on the porch once again.

He ducked into the house, grabbed a pot out from the cupboards. Kase had mentioned something about how he lived here as a bachelor and when he got married, his wife wasn't happy with the condition of most of Kase's belongings so they were still at the farmhouse if Clint wanted to use them. He filled the sink with water, grabbing a couple other pots and setting to scrubbing them clean of dust. Once it was clean, he filled it with water and set it to boil some ramen while he searched through the cupboards for a bowl. He washed it. Everything was going to need a good wash, a solid scrubbing and a lot of elbow grease.

It took him four months before the house was clean enough to be presentable, even by Clint's standards. Six years was a long time for it to have sat on the market – in six years, Kase had never had anyone ask for a showing or try to make an offer. They gave up trying to keep it clean after the six month. As new-parents, they didn't have the time or the energy to keep investing in a property that would never sell. The truck from Kase was actually free, a gift or an apology for the condition of the farmhouse. It didn't matter how many times Clint offered to pay, Kase refused.

And as much of an eyesore as the ugly red truck was, it had definitely come in handy on more than one occasion. Stockpiling on groceries, buying a television, a dart board and more shingles. A lot more shingles. The garden wasn't going as smoothly as he had expected it to be. The potatoes and onions seemed to have done alright, but the carrots were barely an inch long. And the celery didn't even grow.

In the four months he'd spent tidying up the place, the gardening book had since disappeared. And Clint hadn't bothered to buy a new one, because it wouldn't be long before the book turned up again. Unless the cat had stolen it, which he sincerely hoped it hadn't. The book had to have been at least the cat's size. And if the cat had stolen the gardening book, he'd much rather wake up to find the non-fiction book on his porch than a dead mouse. Or two. He didn't need a cat running around, looking after him. And, if he'd taken to calling the cat Tasha, well, that was nobody's business but his own.

In four months, Kase was the only one who had called Clint. No word from Natasha or S.H.I.E.L.D. By now, Fury had to be back at the Triskelion and know what was going on. It wasn't like Clint had taken a paid vacation –he was following Sitwell's orders. Much as he didn't like them, he could tell that the farm was starting to make a difference. _He_ was making a difference. He'd grown a garden from tiny seeds; repaired his house. It still needed a coat or two of paint in a couple of places, but he was focusing on repairing the old fences around the property.

He was just sitting down for dinner –macaroni and cheese –when his cell went off. No one ever called at dinner time around these parts. Shops were closed at five and families were reunited to eat dinner. Not even Kase phoned at dinner time. Abruptly the ringtone changed from a generic bell into "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and Clint's knees crashed into the table hard enough to spill his beer in his haste to answer.

"Nat?!"

"Look outside loser." Clint whirled around to find Natasha standing on the porch, her phone held in hand, and eyebrows arched. "Really, Itsy Bitsy Spider?" she mouthed.

Clint tripped over his chair, racing over to the door to wrench it open. "Nat!" He hugged her.

"Nice place," Natasha replied, pulling back.

Clint frowned. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is," she agreed.

"What? What's wrong with it? It's great. Except the house is yellow. But I mean I have a garden, look at my garden Nat."

"You mean the potatoes?" she asked, arching a brow. "Well, I guess you won't be starving this winter. All those potatoes."

"Hey, at least I did something productive with my time!"

"Yeah, and it took you four months." She clapped slowly, looking at him unimpressed.

"What? Aren't they supposed to take that long to grow…?" Shit, he really should have read the gardening book. Had some kind of a comeback for that.

Natasha huffed and rolled her eyes. "Are you gonna let me in, Clint, or are you going to drag this out so I can't see the mess?"

"There is no mess!" he protested.

Natasha arched her brow, turning slowly and gesturing at the ruined fence. In his defense, it _was_ his first time trying to build a fence. The fact that it had collapsed? Totally not his fault. It was the wind. If it had been less windy, his fence would have lasted longer. As it was, the fence posts were lying scattered about and there was a roll of barbed wire attached. All said, it looked more like either a butchered obstacle course at an army camp or like a medieval torture device.

"…fine." He stepped aside. It wasn't like he had any way to _actually_ keep her out of his house if he wanted, and he didn't really want to either.

Natasha walked inside, paused for half a step and turned to give Clint a flat glare. Clint looked away. Natasha proceeded inside with a heavy sigh. "At least tell me the spare bedroom is made up."

"Of course!"

He'd had the spare room set up since before the first week had ended. The blankets weren't Nutcracker themed, but hopefully the spider theme would be acceptable until he could find something better.

"You look like you haven't slept since New York," Natasha stated as she shrugged off her leather jacket.

"I wouldn't be alive if I hadn't slept in that long," Clint snorted, grabbing a rag from the counter.

He didn't have to look at her to know she was rolling her eyes. As far as deflections went, it wasn't the greatest choice be could have made but it was true. It was also true that he still wasn't sleeping. The nightmares hadn't stopped. But there wasn't anything he could do about them. Working to the point of exhaustion hadn't stopped them. Desperate for some relief from the exhaustion, Clint had even tried meditating. Also –complete garbage. Did not work. Jerking off usually worked but given… It was more stressful and ineffective than anything else.

"Clint."

Clint ignored her, walking over to clean up the spilled beer. Without looking, he threw the rag over his shoulder and back into the sink.

"Clint."

"How've the Avengers been?" he asked, grabbing his bowl of macaroni.

"Captain America's signed on to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. He's Level 7."

"Wow, the benefits of being a war hero. Skipping through all the bullshit."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Stark is holed up in his Malibu lab; Banner is at his Bella Coola home."

"Canada?" Clint asked disbelievingly, shoveling another forkful of macaroni into his mouth.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "He got attached."

"But Canada?"

"The Canadians didn't try to have him killed or weaponized. I don't blame him." Clint shrugged in agreement before finishing off his dinner. "Aside from the success of your garden," Natasha drawled wryly, "and your failure to repair your house, how have you been?"

"Oh, y'know, great. Just been hanging out here. Waiting to see if S.H.I.E.L.D has anything for me to do."

"Did they send you on a vacation, then?"

Clint shrugged. "Sitwell didn't have anything for me. Told me to go find something to do. So here I am."

Natasha's expression darkened. "Fury demoted him. Sitwell reported you were AWOL."

"I wasn't exactly trying to hide," Clint argued. "I mean I left a trail."

"To the middle of Pennsylvania. I've only been back for a day; Fury flew me in to find you."

"Well, here I am. Tell me you got a job or something at least?"

Natasha huffed. "I thought your potatoes were all-important now."

"I had some onions too!"

"I don't see any."

Clint snorted. "I'm glad your faith in me is so irreplaceable. I'm telling you I had onions."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Right, Barton. So you gonna stay here at your summerhouse and play farm boy or are coming back to S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"Y'know, at least the potatoes never judged me. My garden doesn't need your kind of negativity around."

"I will physically drag you out of here. Don't tempt me."

"Alright, alright. Just don't throw the shrinks at me the minute I get through the door."

* * *

><p><em>I promise there is a reason for the switching between Phil and Coulson that will become more apparent. <em>


	3. C'mon

C'mon

It was like the shrinks could sense whenever Clint was in the building because suddenly they would descend. He hadn't even made it to the elevator and he had spotted four of them.

"Sitwell's stationed in New York for the foreseeable future," Natasha grumbled as they got into the elevator.

They were short on trained agents, which meant that Sitwell's "mistake" was going to be overlooked for the time. For now though, Clint got to watch every S.H.I.E.L.D agent they passed, flinch away. Or avoid eye contact. Maybe he hadn't lost his touch after all. Clint smiled bitterly to himself as they walked to Fury's office.

"Barton," Fury acknowledged. "Where've you been?"

"Growing potatoes, sir."

"I thought I was vacationing; hadn't realized I was AWOL," Clint replied.

"Agent Sitwell told him to wait for orders and keep himself occupied in the meantime."

Fury sighed. "I've got a mission for you in Bahrain. A new branch of the Ten Rings has an office there. Need you to dismantle them, quietly."

"Yes, sir," they agreed.

Fury paused then, staring at Clint. "I'm only gonna ask this once Barton. You good for this?"

"Absolutely, sir!"

Fury nodded once. "The jet leaves at oh five hundred."

They nodded and left his office, ignoring the pointed lack of chatter from their nosy colleagues as they headed towards the elevator.

"When's the last time you sparred Barton? Put those muscles to actual work?"

Clint scowled. "I'd like to see you say that after you did the work I did."

Natasha smirked. "So, not since May then?"

Clint nodded. But it wasn't like he'd set his bow down or stopped exercising in the morning. And hell, he spent every day doing physical labor. Often, he was redoing the same work all over again. On a good day, he and Natasha would tie for sparring. But she'd been doing Intel missions and there was no way that Clint would be walking away from this sparring match with his dignity intact. Refusing her would be as good as admitting defeat –and Natasha would still drag him down to the mats to rub it in. Of the S.H.I.E.L.D agents Clint was familiar with, Melinda May was probably the only other agent who could give her a run for her money. Captain Rogers, maybe, now that he was an agent and all that. Phil –Coulson used to be able to, but he'd stopped spending time down at the mats years ago. He was trying to make that mysterious agent persona work for him –he used to practice with Natasha and Clint outside of S.H.I.E.L.D facilities where baby agents weren't likely to see him.

It was hard to figure out a way to remember Coulson. So often he'd been _Coulson_, the unflappable S.H.I.E.L.D badass but they'd been friends outside of work. Even in the field. He'd been Phil for years, until…

"I've been throwing logs around all summer," Clint scoffed. "Bring it on."

Natasha grinned ferally, all teeth. Not for the first time, Clint knew he was going to regret it. When they got down to the gym, there was a fresh batch of baby agents standing around, watching two Level 5 agents practicing. It was easy to tell who was going to be winning considering it was Bobbi Morse and Mark Yung. They moved fluidly and responded well to each other, but Bobbi was the better fighter. She feinted and clipped him with a glancing blow before she took him down, grinning breathlessly as the junior agents clapped in awe.

"Mind if we cut in?" Natasha called, grinning at them.

Bobbi moved hastily. "No, not a problem!" Respectfully, she and her partner moved out of the way as Natasha and Clint took their places.

He could practically feel the room tense up as he stood opposite Natasha. The fearsome Clint Barton, S.H.I.E.L.D traitor who killed thirty-two agents. He was probably the bogey-man the newbies told stories about, gossiped about considering his absence. And Natasha was going to kick his ass in front of all of them. Clint pulled his sweater off, tossing it aside. He was going to have to change for the mission anyways and it wasn't as though he was dressed up. Nat had already changed into her workout clothes on the way down. Not that she was going to need them, really.

"Whoa, Barton!" Bobbi catcalled. "Look at that farmer's tan!"

Clint rolled his eyes. _That_ was nothing new. He was always out in the field or around with no sleeves on because he needed arm guards and because he preferred them.

Natasha struck out quickly, lightly smacking his shoulder with her wrapped hands. "You done standing around yet?" she teased, her eyes dancing.

Clint rolled his eyes and finished wrapping his hands. He was barely done before she lashed out at him. The focus of the younger agents as well as Bobbi and Mark were easily blocked out, including their gasps of awe and shock as Clint and Natasha attacked and blocked. It was less than five minutes in before Natasha had Clint on his back –normally Clint lasted at least ten, but she wasn't going easy on him. With a grunt of exertion, Clint broke free of her grip and advanced. Two minutes later, he was flat on his back again and tapping out.

Natasha smirked as she got up. "Rusty," she called. "That was just sad, Barton."

If only the shocked expression the baby agents wore, could count for something. They looked as though they couldn't believe that either Clint or Natasha could possibly do better. It was pretty sad, at least for him, compared to when he was on the top of his game.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, rolling his shoulders.

Natasha attacked again. After three rounds, when Clint was thoroughly trounced, he stepped out of the ring. The newbies gazed at Natasha, star-struck. Clint rolled his eyes.

"Hey, you worked with the Avengers, didn't you?" asked one of the young agents, staring at Clint in adoration.

Clint blinked, turning in confusion to look at the kid addressing him. "Yeah."

"You were so cool out there! I saw you in action. You were amazing!"

"Thanks," Clint replied hesitantly.

"I don't care what anyone else thinks; whatever happened on the helicarrier, there was no way it was your fault. I mean, like, mind control! Who knew?"

Clint smiled tightly. "Who knew," he repeated.

"I wanna be as good as you are one day," the kid continued enthusiastically. "At least with your gun scores. I don't think anyone could compare with a bow."

Clint forced a laugh; it was almost genuine. "If there's someone out there who can, I might be out of a job."

The kid gasped at that. "No way! You're an Avenger now –they'd never be able to replace you! There are a few stores that even make action figures."

Clint blinked, and for a minute it was as though the world had come to a complete stop. If Phil were still alive –if Coulson were still alive, would he have collected them? Probably not. Clint wasn't… Clint wasn't that special. He wasn't Captain America.

"Wow, I… I had no idea."

"Oh they totally do! Not many, but there are a few out there," the young agent enthused.

Natasha stopped beside Clint, setting her hand on his arm briefly. "Go rest up. We've gotta be in the air in just under ten hours."

"Hey Nat, did you know that we have action figures?" Clint asked, flashing a grin.

"We do?"

"Oh totally!" the agent enthused, staring at Natasha wide-eyed. "You have a lot more than Hawkeye does."

Natasha glanced at Clint. "I'm sure Iron Man and Captain America have more," she stated. "Come on, Barton." She dragged him off.

Clint grabbed his sweater on their way back to the elevator. Natasha led him back to her room. He took the pair of sweatpants she offered him –they were obviously one of the few pairs he'd left behind. At either of their places, it was likely to find old articles of their clothing. Clint took the pants and showered the sweat and stress away before he emerged to start cooking dinner.

Natasha had a rule: so long as someone was over, or she was at their place, she was not going to be doing the cooking. A glance through her cupboards and fridge always revealed gourmet quality food but in all the years Clint had known her, he'd only seen her cook once. Clint had had hypothermia and extraction was two hours out. To be fair, he couldn't really remember what she made, but he knew that she had _cooked_ and that it was important. Natasha wouldn't cook unless she absolutely had to. Even if it meant eating whatever Clint himself considered food –and Phil used to assure him that what he ate was not worthy of being called food.

Clint paused for a second as he stirred the pancake batter. The ache was always there. Was probably always going to be there.

"I won't ask," Natasha said softly, from behind him.

Clint glanced at her from the corner of his eye. He shrugged, scooping the batter onto the pan.

"But if you want to, you can talk about it." She leaned back against the island. "And really, pancakes for dinner?"

"It's not like we're gonna make breakfast at three in the morning. We could have leftovers tomorrow," Clint defended.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Sure thing, farm boy. You know best. Did you actually do the whole rise at the dawn part of the job?"

Clint consciously kept his posture relaxed, knowing that Natasha would be reading every line of tension in his body. "Nah, I just got up whenever." Usually it was early, because of the nightmare. Same time every night, like clockwork. "Didn't really have much of a reason to keep a clock around."

"Sounds exhausting," Natasha drawled. "Getting up whenever, growing some potatoes."

Clint laughed. "Just because I got a vacation and you had to run intelligence doesn't mean you have to pick on my potatoes."

Natasha shook her head. "Just make me dinner, already."

Clint stuck his tongue out at her before he started turning the pancakes over. "You ever gonna let the farming thing go?"

"Never." Natasha smirked.

Clint sighed and served the first of the pancakes to her, cooking the rest of the batter up. He was right, there was definitely going to be enough left over for a quick snack on the way out the door to the plane. If either of them bothered to do that much. Clint headed to the spare room and Natasha went to take a shower. Double checking that he still had an emergency bag stored under the guest bed. With the frequency that he, Natasha and Phil had been called off on missions, they'd all started to keep extra bags at the others' place. When Natasha had come out to the farm, she had stored her spare emergency bag underneath the guest bed. Delays could cost lives, especially if it ended up involving driving through rush hour traffic to get home. Lola often mitigated that effect for Phil, but he didn't always want to drive her down to Clint's apartment or Natasha's.

Clint paused, reaching under the bed slowly until his fingers brushed against the canvas material. Clint pulled it out almost reverently, staring down at the familiar bag. The Captain America pin tucked neatly against the zipper, the obnoxious arrow-piercing-a-heart that Clint had given him for Valentine's Day a year ago. Abruptly Clint shoved the bag back under the bed, staring at where he knew it was. Part of him wanted to desperately grab the bag, rip it open and grab the first shirt. Just so he could remember that part of Phil, the private side he had the privilege of being able to share in for a while. But he didn't deserve it. Fuck, before Phil was dead he'd asked to not see Clint for awhile. The last thing he'd asked was… Clint could at least _try_ to respect his wishes. He'd gotten Phil killed. He owed him at least that much.

Suddenly exhausted, Clint stood back up and sat down on the bed. He'd have whatever clothes he needed in the bag. He just… couldn't. Not tonight. Not when every night he woke up to The Bastard's voice ringing in his mind, asking him how to break the team apart. He didn't even order it, just asked. And Clint rolled over like a dog, wagged his tail, and told him everything. Told him about Phil, Phil's protective streak, Phil who would always do what he thought was right. Phil who's greatest hero was Captain America. Phil, the only guy who gave Clint a second chance. And a third. The first person at S.H.I.E.L.D who actually trusted him. And Clint got him killed, told Loki about how Phil had mentioned his recent vision problems, how confident Phil was, how… How to kill him.

And when that nightmare was done with him? Phil always came next. He would frown and look so _crushingly_ disappointed in Clint. Phil would shake his head and slowly sit down across from him at the table.

"Is there anything you want to tell me, Barton?" Phil asked. It was always Phil, never Coulson. This was too personal for his unflappable persona.

Clint would stare at him wordlessly, trying to find the words, his mouth working helplessly. And then Clint would reach into his pants, wrap his hand tight around the blade as he gazed at Phil, conflicted.

"If you wanted to leave S.H.I.E.L.D you could have said something," Phil bit out. "You're not a prisoner here, you've never been. Not after your first year. So just tell me why, Barton. Why you did it."

And Clint would lean back casually, sliding the knife free from his pocket. "Why," he would muse, staring back at Phil. "Don't you know, Phil? I'm a _bad_ guy." He would rock forward on the legs of his chair and whip the blade at Phil, straight through his heart.

Clint jerked upright, swallowing a mouthful of blood. By the sting on his lip, he'd bit a good chunk of it in an attempt to not yell. Old habits died hard. Clint exhaled heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face. He fumbled for his cell phone, sighing in relief when the time showed that it was five to four. He wasn't going to have to try and fall back asleep. Clint changed half heartedly, and headed out to start the coffee pot. He had eaten three pancakes and was halfway through his coffee by the time Natasha got up.

However, her hair was straightened and she actually looked like a functioning human being. She spared him a glance, her gaze lingering on his swollen lip. "That bad?" she asked.

"Worse," Clint answered gruffly, downing the rest of his coffee.

Natasha nodded slowly. She grabbed a mug of coffee and drank it black, chewing on a rolled up pancake as they stood around her kitchen in comfortable silence. It wasn't like Natasha hadn't known. About the nightmares. They all got them at some point, and given Clint's first question to her, the first thing he asked when he was back, was how many? Natasha knew. Clint was incapable of leaving things alone when he should. This one, though? All him. Coulson more than anyone else. He had put together a team to break onto the helicarrier –he hadn't told them where to aim and how to fire. But he'd given both to The Bastard.

"C'mon, let's get outta here," Natasha said, setting her half finished cup of coffee aside.

Already unable to taste the food he'd been eating; Clint tossed the remains into the garbage before he grabbed his bag and followed Natasha down into the hangar. They boarded the jet and the senior agent handed over their mission parameters. Clint managed to suppress a smile. The goal was to get in and wipe out the Ten Rings cell operating in the area using as little electronic communications naming the organization in case Tony Stark got wind of the operation and decided to blow the entire place up. If he did, it would seriously jeopardize S.H.I.E.L.D's relationship with the Saudi Arabian government. And they couldn't afford that kind of a mistake right now.

Clint and Natasha both examined the blue prints that S.H.I.E.L.D had been able to obtain on the building that the terrorist group was hiding in. Clint pointed out several weak entry points, where there would most likely be fewer trained soldiers. They were harder to reach places but that was nothing new. Natasha agreed and together they worked out a plan on how to sneak into the building, kill the bad guys and rescue the hostages. If there were any.

It was a simple mission, an easy plan. Clint and Natasha had done a thousand of them before. Except as Clint waited on an outcrop for Natasha to lure the guards over, everything went to hell. Static cut through their comms sharply and Clint lost sight of Natasha. For a moment, panic seized him. He scanned the building, searching for any flash of red but there was nothing. There was no one. No Natasha.

Natasha was flexible, more than willing to adjust a plan on the fly if she thought there was a better angle. This was probably just one of those times. Except Clint had no way to hear her, to check in to make sure she wasn't in trouble. Granted, Clint could only count on one hand the number of times where Natasha was in a situation she couldn't get out of. (All of them centered on Clint; one was a very memorable bar fight). But this wasn't like those ones –because he couldn't see Natasha or hear her. And there was no one sitting at the other end of the comm., this was the kind of mission most junior agents got sent on. Recon and a few bullet holes and they would be done.

_Two hours_, Clint thought reluctantly as he watched the building. _I can give her that much._ He'd never had to go in and bail her out before, but if this had to be the first time, he would have liked if she could have waited until they were guaranteed back up. The Saudi government hadn't technically approved S.H.I.E.L.D to be in the area, they hadn't openly acknowledged that the Ten Rings was operating in Bahrain. But they hadn't concealed it either or questioned them when they flew in to land. The extraction would be back in two days.

Shit. If Coulson had been here… But he wasn't. And neither Clint nor Natasha were junior agents, needing a handler to baby them every step of the way. Granted, the comfort of _some_ back up arriving eventually would have been reassuring. Clint cursed under his breath and bit his lip, wincing at the pain as he kept an eye on the sun's movement. When Natasha disappeared, the sun had been at the zenith. Roughly two hours later, the sun was drooping off behind the top of the mountains. Clint extended his bow, slipping down the sand dune he'd been perched on top of in a controlled glide before peering at the front entrance where he'd last seen Natasha.

No sign of her. No dead guard either. Not a good sign. Clint crept forward, peering around the corner. Still, no sight of anyone. Gritting his teeth against the bad feeling clawing up his belly, Clint advanced into the Ten Rings' hideout. There was no way Natasha would be dead. She was too strong for these guys to handle. Except, and there was the nauseous oily feeling weaving in his stomach, except somehow they'd already taken Natasha. His apprehension growing as each hall he walked down was empty; Clint started to jog through them. No blood, no bullet casings, to signs of a fight. No sign of Natasha at all.

There was a _hssss_ that echoed abruptly and Clint whirled, spotting the source immediately as the odorless gas billowed down the hall towards him like a noxious cloud of death. Clint ran the other way and slid to a stop. Because from both sides the gas was being blasted in, isolating his chance at escape. He dropped to his knees, shamelessly crawling along the floor, holding his breath. If he could just make it… there had to be a way out. There had to be. The Ten Rings weren't supposed to be this advanced, not enough to be able to take out their comms and not enough to be able to gas them while they were trying to break in. Unless the Intel was faulty, unless it was a trap. But S.H.I.E.L.D had always been good at checking the sources, at making sure the information was as relevant and up to date as it could. At making sure the citing of the information had happened.

Clint crawled around the next corner, his lungs burning with the strain of holding his breath. But there was no end in sight, no door waiting to be opened. No sign of Natasha. Reluctantly, Clint inhaled as big of a breath as he could, holding it in. But the gas was everywhere. It was burning his eyes, he could feel them tearing up even as the noxious fumes weaseled down into his chest. And dear god. Clint's whole body spasmed, sending him crawling ahead weakly as his muscles seized up again. It burned. Everything burned. He clawed at the front of his uniform, as though he could penetrate through the layers of fabric and flesh to rip his esophagus out and stop the pain. The shout he let out was drowned in a cry of agony as the gas assaulted his body.

As abruptly as it all started, it abruptly stopped when Clint fell unconscious beneath the onslaught of pain that he couldn't escape. For a second there, right before he passed out, he thought he could see Fury standing above him.


	4. Titanium

Titanium

Waking up in a cell was never Clint's favorite. But at least he'd gotten a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Probably wasn't best to brag about that, though. Most dungeons failed to meet hygiene standards and they were reluctant to provide beds for their prisoners. At least S.H.I.E.L.D gave their prisoners cots to use. Clint sat up slowly, coughing. The gas they'd used had probably been a more intensified tear gas, considering the fact that it hadn't killed him overnight. Assuming night had passed. Clint scanned the room hopefully but of course there was no sign of Natasha. Shit. Had it been a trap from the beginning? And if so, which side had set it up? The Saudi Arabian government, the Bahraini government or the Ten Rings? Had they figured out there was an informant and used them to reel S.H.I.E.L.D in like sitting ducks?

Fuck. Clint got to his feet, grimacing. Of course. They'd left him his boxers but they'd confiscated the rest of his clothing. He had knives and lock-picks tucked away for purposes of escape. The cell was completely barren; there wasn't anything he could use to get out.

"Nat?" he called out softly, hopeful. If she at least answered, he would know where she was. If she was here. There was no answer, just the fading echo of his voice.

It was never reassuring to be imprisoned alone and isolated. It meant that either the interrogators were good at doing their jobs, getting the information they needed so the prisoners were of no use or it meant they were terrible at torturing and their prisoners died. Or, worst of all, it meant that the people running this cell actually knew what they were doing. Prisoners could scheme and work together to escape. Clint had done it on several occasions with Phil and Nat both, knowing back-up wasn't going to be able to reach them.

Natasha was the one good at these types of things. She could charge in and clear it out on her own, and just as easily as she was pulled into a prison, she could manipulate her way out. Most of the time. Clint was her support, on hand with his bow and watching her back. It was rarely that simple when things went F.U.B.A.R though. That was when Coulson came in. At least, in their later years that was the type of work Coulson was dealing with. Clint and Natasha had both spent a few years in the field with Coulson, learning from him and taking out terrorist organizations.

Clint could vaguely remember the last time he'd been taken alone. It was before Coulson took over as his handler when he'd been left behind in Ireland while the rest of his team scattered after the officer in command had been shot. Ireland in the late 90's had not been a pleasant place to end up, stranded, in an underground cell. Since then he'd been captured only three more times, but there was at least one other person with him.

It wasn't _as_ bad if there was someone to bitch at. Someone who could keep him alive a little longer and someone he could try to keep alive as well. It was something to do. It was a way of avoiding the reality around him. Clint had been trapped in the Irish dungeon for a week before S.H.I.E.L.D got him out. The dungeon in Ireland looked a lot similar to this one; windowless, barred and smelling like stale sweat. There was a stained mattress on the floor in the corner, but really, it was barely an inch or two thick. And the mice that were cuddled up on it, seemed like they wouldn't appreciate being disturbed.

Clint dragged a hand over his face. Maybe Natasha got out, or maybe she'd never been taken. If she was in the area, she'd be working to find a way to him. Clint checked out the cell thoroughly, inch by inch, hoping there might be something he could use. There was nothing. He was going to have to sit pretty until Natasha, or S.H.I.E.L.D got here. Or until he found an opportunity to escape. It was rarely that likely to happen.

Clint doubled over coughing, feeling his lungs squeeze uncomfortably as he could just pick up the sounds of booted feet walking. By the time the coughing fit was over, his eyes were watery, there was a guard standing in front of his cell, waving the key in his meaty fist. Maybe getting out of here wasn't going to be that hard, after all. Clint eyed the key casually, watching as Meaty Fist opened the cell door. Suspicious, Clint stepped forward, holding his arms up. Meaty Fist scowled and jerked his arm, gesturing for Clint to hurry up. Clint casually strolled out beside Meaty Fist, making sure that he could see the key in the peripheral of his vision.

Meaty Fist walked him down a hallway that looked nothing like the one Clint had gotten trapped in only a few hours ago. He couldn't be near the front of the building, then. Not his cells and not the lair that Meaty Fist seemed excited to drag Clint down to as he turned down a stairway. Great, so his cell was only five steps away from the torture room. Efficient. And judging by the way the steel instruments all gleamed with polish, these guys knew what they were doing. There was one chair in the room, leather restraints lying open on the arm rests. It was strategically placed next to the table holding the torture instruments. Clint imagined that whoever was stuck there would be able to watch as their interrogator deliberated over what item to use next. The suspension of the moment would break a lot of people. They were trying to scare Clint, weaken him before they started on the actual work. Which was never a good sign. Clint scanned the room, keeping his body language relaxed as he searched for an exit.

"You won't find a way out down here," purred an unfamiliar voice as the guy stepped out from the shadowy corner. Like a cliché villain in a Bond movie.

"Really?" Clint drawled. "I was expecting an emergency exit door."

The Cliché Bond Villain huffed irritably. "Tell me who you are."

"Cap'n F. U of the Titanic, at your service," Clint answered, keeping a straight face as he watched the cliché villain's expression twist with rage. "D'you need me to spell it out for you?"

Cliché Bond Villain shouted something then, in a foreign language. Clint didn't have time to try and figure out what it was but he was guessing it wasn't going to be good for him judging by the pleased look that flashed across Meaty Fist's face. Whatever made Meaty Fist look _that_ pleased, was something Clint wanted no part of. He lashed out, sweeping Meaty Fist's legs out from under him. Meaty Fist went down with a roar, lunging towards Clint who casually stepped back, aiming a boot at Meaty Fist's face. Except for the part where he had apparently overlooked Cliché Bond Villain. Because he grabbed Clint by the shoulders, throwing his scrawny weight into it that Clint's bare foot skimmed across Meaty Fist's pudgy nose. Clint let his momentum carry him backwards, slamming Cliché Bond Villain back against the wall.

Before Clint could do anything else, Meaty Fist was back up on his feet and advancing. Cliché Bond Villain growled and shoved at Clint ineffectively, his feet scrambling for purchase as he attempted to crush Clint's toes. Clint jerked away from the scrawny guy, letting his own clumsiness drop him to the floor as he squared off against Meaty Fist. As Clint feinted to the left, zagging around Meaty Fist's right, he tugged the key free from his pocket and ran for the stairwell. Cliché Bond Villain wasn't done apparently as he blew on a whistle harshly.

Not willing to wait around and see what the whistle blowing meant precisely for him, Clint took off down the hallway. Escape attempts generally worked better if there was a big picture, some way to piece together the layout of the building. The blueprints S.H.I.E.L.D had sent along with them did not match up to this place –he wasn't sure if he was even still in Bahrain or if they had moved him at some point. Clint raced down the hall, skidding to a stop in front of the first door that appeared like it might let him out of the complex he was stuck in. Alarm bells sounded off and Clint put the key into the lock twisting, but nothing. Of course it wasn't a one key fits all case. Clint glanced over his shoulder, spotting Meaty Fist coming straight for him. Clint braced his shoulder and slammed himself against the door desperately listening for the splintering sound of wood. But there was nothing, just an ache in his shoulder. Clint turned back, pulling away as Meaty Fist swung his bulky arm out where Clint's head had been seconds before.

Clint stepped close, slamming his knee into Meaty Fist's groin, dropping him to the floor. He wasn't going to be able to keep up in that state –Clint took off running down the hallway and straight into a group of masked and armored terrorists. They shouted at him, gesturing with their guns in a language he couldn't recognize. Clint raised his arms, crouching down slowly, trying to see past the group of soldiers. Another long corridor stretched out behind them. A shadow fell over him and Clint turned his attention back to the people in front of him, only for the masked terrorist to slam the butt of his gun against Clint's temple.

When he woke up next, he was restrained in the chair in the torture room. Meaty Fist grinned widely, revealing a gap toothed grin as he chuckled menacingly. Behind him, stood Cliché Bond Villain, arms crossed as he watched on. Clint's earlier observation was correct. With how he was stretched out, arms and feet restrained, Clint had an easy view of the table full of torture devices. Not all of them had been prepared but it was easier to identify the ones that had been. Because they were red hot and glowing.

"Let's start off easy," the Cliché Bond Villain spat, glowering at Clint. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes, that said he would enjoy this. "Who do you work for?"

Clint glanced between the villain and the glowing hot forceps in Meaty Fist's hand. Clint inhaled. "Your mother," he sneered.

There was no point clinging to pride during torture. Clint held on for as long as he could, for a small measure of control. He didn't have to tell them everything and he wouldn't. He was the one in control of what he said. But by the time they were working on his second foot he had gasped S.H.I.E.L.D. Like he thought, it didn't stop Meaty Fist from finishing what he'd started. When they were done, satisfied when all his nails were gone, Meaty Fist escorted him back to his room. Or so Clint thought. But they moved into a different cell and Meaty Fist gave him a shove, cuffing his hands above his head with a nasty snicker.

Unwilling to not have the last word, Clint bit back his pain and flipped Meaty Fist the bird. It was worth the pain. The door shut behind Meaty Fist and Clint was alone again. It didn't take long before his arms were on fire and he struggled to stand on his bleeding, aching toes to relieve the pain just a little. Unable to hold either position indefinitely, staggering in a haze of pain, he slipped on the bloodied floor and groaned in pain as it wrenched his arms uncomfortably. Clint couldn't say how long they had left him in that position, in that room, as he struggled between fits of wakefulness and exhaustion as the pain gradually decreased into numbness.

There were no windows, no sense of time. No one brought food or water. Clint exhaled heavily, shifting back onto his toes to try and regain some feeling in his arms. It was just another part of the torture. They'd already known or suspected he was S.H.I.E.L.D. This was to weaken him down before they started asking about the state secrets. Clint wouldn't give them up. Some time later, long after his arms had started tingling with sensation and his feet had given out, Meaty Fist came barreling into the room, releasing the metal locks that held Clint in place and dropping his weight back onto his deadened legs. Clint stumbled, managing to straighten only through sheer determination as he held his arms upright. He could feel the way his muscles were locked, knew it would be awhile before he could try and move them lower.

Meaty Fist shoved a water bottle at his face and Clint had no choice but to drink. He couldn't risk getting dehydrated. And he couldn't even tell how many hours it had been since he last drank. Whether it was a measurement of hours or days, he couldn't be sure. Meaty Fist yanked the water bottle away before he pushed and shoved Clint out of the room and back down towards the stairwell and into their lair.

They'd changed the set up. The table with items of torture was gone. Instead, there was just the chair and a rain barrel. Grimacing in distaste, Clint was frogmarched directly to the chair and restrained.

"Did you like your little punishment, Mr. Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D?" purred the Cliché Bond Villain. "You try and run away again and we'll lock you up like that for the rest of your life. Now. Tell me, what's your name?"

"Told you," Clint replied tightly. "Captain F. U of the Titanic."

Cliché Bond Villain scoffed disgustedly. "Eunice. If you would."

Eunice –? Clint grunted as Meaty Fist's clenched hand drove into his gut. _Well shit,_ Clint thought, _I might be getting tortured and I might die but at least my folks never named me fuckin' Eunice._

"Real name," Cliché Bond Villain repeated.

"How about you fuck off instead?" Clint hissed, scowling at the questioner.

"Aim higher," he ordered, watching disinterestedly.

Meaty Fist didn't hesitate to delay, slamming his fist into Clint's solar plexus.

"Name?"

"F'ck off," Clint spat out, trying to suck air into his lungs.

It wasn't long after that before they reclined him back in the chair –and who knew the thing could even do that? And then the real torture began. They placed a cloth over his mouth and then they started pouring the water. It wasn't until they let him up for a second time that he confessed, spitting and spluttering, that his name was Clint Barton. They sent him back to his cell, the same one he'd been forced to stand in. The Cliché Bond Villain smirked and tossed a bottle of water at his feet.

Blinking sluggishly, Clint glared at him. _You,_ he thought, _you will die first._ Soon as he could get free. Clint sat down heavily once both Meaty Fist and Cliché Bond Villain were gone. He scrubbed a hand over his face, breathing in and out patiently as he started to map out the complex from what he'd seen of it so far. By the time he was done that, Clint was too exhausted for more. The next day, they changed things up again.

CBV seemed to know what he wanted Clint to tell him. Clint refused. Meaty Fist relied on his fists, as though they thought it would break Clint faster. It didn't. He'd spent too long being beaten by too many people. He preferred being able to hit back. As soon as they untied him, Clint lashed out, slamming his elbow into Meaty Fist's face before he leaped on CBV and started hitting him back. He didn't remember much after that.

What he did remember was coming to back in his cell, his arms strained above his head while he was nearly suspended. His toes could only just brush against the hard floor and it was a painful effort to stand on the tips of his toes for any extended period of time. It was here when they seemed to remember that Clint was a human, had human needs, because Meaty Fist was sent in with a tray of food and a bottle of water. As Meaty Fist shoved spoonful after spoonful of disgusting so-called porridge into his mouth, Clint came to the decision of _how_ he was going to kill Meaty Fist. In general? Slowly. Very slowly. To be specific? With a rusty spoon through his face.

With no sense of time, the torture felt like it stretched on for weeks. In fact, it might have. Half the time he had no idea what CBV was asking about, other than that it was stupid and he really wished the guy would _stop_. Stop talking, stop breathing, stop existing. Despite how much harder it was to concentrate on anything, to focus, there was one day where CBV gestured at Meaty Fist and they hauled Clint through the maze of corridors. It was the lame Bond villain who had the key, the singular key that could get them anywhere. And then, it was blindingly bright and took far too long for Clint to realize that they had brought him outside. Had shown him the way and given him the key.

Unable to see on the way back down, resting his strained eyes, Clint counted each turn they took and visually mapped the way while the two torturers blabbered to each other. Two days later, when they released him from the chair, he took Meaty Fist down, slamming his head against the concrete floor before he turned on Murder Victim Number One and slammed him against the nearest wall, yanking the key out of his pocket. Clint smiled cruelly before he slammed his knee into his solar plexus and knocked him out.

Adrenaline coursing through him, Clint raced out of the torture chamber and down the halls, following the map as he remembered it. He unlocked door after door, shielding his eyes against the sunlight as he stepped outside. Except there was no sunshine. There was no outside. He had been too desperate, he hadn't stopped to listen. Clint hadn't been able to concentrate beyond the feeling of fresh air, of soft grass beneath his injured feet. It was a courtyard under a black night sky, bright fluorescent lights illuminating him to every guard standing at their posts. It was hard to see them, standing there. But it was easier to hear them.

Their shouts, the noisy loading of guns and the firing of a few too close to him. He could barely see –it was too bright out here compared to the barely lit dungeon they were keeping him in. Fuck, if his eyes were damaged… Clint sank to his knees slowly, gritting his teeth as he raised his hands meekly. He wasn't going back there, not to whatever hell they had waiting him for him as a new punishment. More suspension that he couldn't take? Water boarding again? He wouldn't survive it. Sure, they fed him. But not well. Dying… might not be so bad.

Natasha wasn't here. He didn't know where she was, but it wasn't here. He would have heard her making escape attempts like she would have heard him when he tried. But there had been nothing but heavy silence. Clint listened to the sound of boot steps crunching on soft earth, counted the seconds out as the soldier approached him. He struck, disarming him clumsily and grabbing the gun. Before he could _do_ anything with it, someone struck his the side of his head that was facing them.

Grunting in pain, he went to get back up unsteadily on his feet when there was a gunshot. Distantly, he felt the heat of the bullet zing past his ear, burning where it sped past. A sharp ringing blossomed in his ear, silencing every other sound. Unable to hear and barely able to see, Clint wasn't braced or prepared when someone careened into him, slamming him onto the ground. Abruptly, the ringing cut out.

There was nothing.

No white noise.

No voices.

Just…

Nothing.


	5. Get Home

Get Home

Clint didn't fight when they dragged him back to his cell and chained him up. It wasn't Meaty Fist or CBV who did it. Clint honestly couldn't remember their faces. Point was they didn't realize how unusual it was for Clint to not put up a fight. Not even a token argument. He couldn't. He couldn't fucking _hear_. Alone in his cell, the heavy exhaustion that ate away at his body did nothing to lure him to sleep. If someone came in –Meaty Fist or CBV, he wouldn't be able to react. He wouldn't hear them. He needed to see with his own eyes. If he didn't have that, he had nothing. They could do whatever they wanted to him then –they'd know he was damaged. They'd figure out he was hiding it and they would exploit it.

Clint knew the type. Had spent his whole life with them. His drunken father, Trickshot and the Swordsman, Barney… Too many in a long line. When he sprained his wrist learning acrobatics from one of the performers –and Trick had found out about it –he'd forced Clint to work in spite of the pain. And when he wasn't happy? He wasn't shy about threatening to leave Clint behind, about promising to cut his fingers off before he did it either. Trick didn't want competition. When Trick found Clint stealing from his food, he had broken Clint's arm for his trouble. So Clint learned how to hide when things hurt, when he wanted something for himself.

How was he supposed to hide _this,_ though? S.H.I.E.L.D had trained him to read lips for a few missions, but he was only actually good at doing it with people he knew. People he was familiar with. Nat or – or Phil. When CBV had him in there, dragged him through another round of torture, asking questions? He didn't always have a clear sight on the asshole. He wouldn't be able to see him. He could try and play up the strong and silent type, put up an act as though he had decided he wasn't going to talk anymore. Which wasn't going to be easy when he was being _tortured_. In fact, the torture was going to be the worst part. He needed to get out of here. At this rate, he wouldn't last much longer.

The night dragged on. Cold and silent. Clint gave up halfway through on trying to keep his arms from locking into place but it was hopeless. He only knew morning had come when Meaty Fist shoved the door open, grimacing at Clint in what was probably supposed to be an intimidating scowl. Honestly? It was hard to tell given that the right side of Meaty Fist's face was swollen up and he had a black eye. What Clint wouldn't do for a rusty spoon. Giving him no time for adjustment, no sparing, Meaty Fist wrenched Clint's arms together and handcuffed them. He dragged him down to the torture room and tossed him into his chair under CBV's supervision.

Of course, Clint couldn't see him. He kept his mouth shut until an unexpected blow drove the air from his lungs in what was probably a pained gasp. It set the mood and tone for the rest of the day. Meaty Fist returned him to his cell, dumping him inside it unceremoniously, not bothering to remove the handcuffs before he locked the door and walked off. Good to know they liked each other about the same. Clint attempted to sit up, scooting over closer to the mattress. He didn't care about the mice anymore.

Clint curled up on his side, taking stock of his body's aches and pains. Everything hurt. No surprise there, but his arms and shoulders were always the worst as the pins and needles started. Having grown up with nothing, Clint had become accustomed to missing meals. The ache in his stomach was all too familiar as were the hunger pains. Compared to the rest, his hunger was the most easily ignored. But he'd be feeling those aftereffects the longest. He was filthy, covered in sweat and old crusted blood he didn't remember how it got there. And above all else, he was _tired_. He could feel the exhaustion in his bones, weighing each limb down as though he were trying to swim in a lake of honey that kept trying to drag him under. Clint shifted his arms, hissing in pain until he was tucked up against the far corner of the room like a scared child. Clint exhaled slowly, keeping his eyes on the door and he turned to his happy place.

He imagined his Iowa farm, walking up the driveway to see Phil sitting on the porch in casual clothes. A polo shirt and pressed trousers, because he wouldn't be Phil in jeans. Not even on a farm. Phil would have the newspaper spread out in front of him, pen between his teeth, glasses perched on his nose as he stared at the crossword in front of him. Clint thought of the smells, the faint stench of old manure, the fresh air and the scent of recently dug dirt. From their garden, well, it was Clint's mostly. There was the occasional moo from a calf, calling for its mother as Clint walked up the road to his boyfriend. The sky was blue, cloudless, with the sun shining down on them. And by the time Clint was standing on the deck, in front of Phil, blocking his light, he could pick out the scent of Phil's shampoo.

Clint watched as Phil bundled up in a winter jacket and set out to scout for the perfect Christmas tree. Phil always loved the holidays. Clint followed after him, carrying the axe. It wasn't like they needed a monstrous tree –just something moderate. Something them. Along the way, Clint would ball up a snow ball and throw it. Phil would turn, give him an exasperated look and quip about how they were supposed to be out _working, _Barton, and he would throw a snowball right back.

It was a nice place. Clint could only wish he got to see it, could hear Phil laugh again. But Phil was dead and even before then, they had been broken up. Clint had been pulling his head from his ass, had a whole big gesture for Phil worked out. He was Coulson during that time. They weren't intimate. Coulson had been taking his name back for his own reasons. Admittedly, at the time they had seemed dumb. Clint learned though, in time, that Coulson had a point. Fuck, Clint had gone out and _planned_ the whole thing. The whole gesture to show he understood Phil, Phil's reasons, Phil's concern. They'd had a standing dinner date. Two days before they were due at the nice Italian joint, The Bastard happened. And then Phil was dead and there was no point. The restaurant ended up crushed underneath a leviathan. Even if Clint had been sentimental enough to go back and find the promissory ring, it wasn't going to be found. And he didn't have anyone to give it to. Better luck to whoever found it next, really.

It wasn't so hard to stay awake. Not when he let himself think about Phil, about Coulson, to remember the man he knew. Both privately and professionally. The only differences came to when and where Clint could call him sir, and the fact that Phil was more willing to talk about himself. Clint didn't know whether he should honor the last thing Phil had asked of him – "Don't, Barton. It's Coulson, now." Again, he meant. As though even their friendship had been stripped away from them –and it had. It wouldn't have lasted forever, Clint didn't think. Phil was always fair and when Clint asked if they could talk over dinner, Phil had agreed. Despite what Phil had said earlier, about not mixing their personal and professional lives; Clint had asked and Phil had agreed.

It must have been another day, maybe two, before they hauled Clint back down to the torture chamber. It didn't matter what they asked, if they asked anything. Clint couldn't hear anything. He couldn't see his questioner, didn't really feel like trying to either. At some point, it didn't seem to matter anymore. There was nothing but pain and the moments that existed between. Every time they returned him to his cell, he was more and more grateful for it.

The second day? Or was it the third? After he had lost his hearing, he saw Phil. Phil dressed in a sweater vest, hipster glasses and everything. He was adorable. Phil spoke; Clint could see his mouth moving, but there were no words. Odd. But really, he guessed it made sense. Phil was dead. Dead and buried. Or cremated, or something. Actually Clint wasn't sure; he'd never gotten the invite to attend the funeral. What kind of boyfriend was he? Ex-boyfriend? Didn't ex-boyfriends go to their dead ex-boyfriends funerals? They probably should, seemed like a crappy thing not to, like the social equivalent of spitting on their grave. Shit, did people see him like that nowadays? He never went to Phil's funeral –they'd worked together for well over ten years and Phil changed Clint's life –and Clint didn't even go to his funeral.

Sleep and food seemed like a great thing, Clint realized. But there was no food. And sleep –there was something about that. Clint shouldn't go to sleep. But it was getting harder and harder to remember why. He couldn't… remember, right. What had happened. He just knew that Fisty Meat –wait, no that was wrong, wasn't it? Meat man and the other guy always came. With pain. And then they'd send him back to his little cell. He wasn't any use to anyone. Not S.H.I.E.L.D or they'd have already come and rescued him. Phil would have. But then Clint had been fucking him and of course Phil would always come that's who Phil was. Knight in shining armor, like a miniature greyer Captain America.

There was a –a something –like a vibration under him, across the whole floor. Clint looked up wearily towards the door, watching as soldiers raced down the hall. That would be why. Probably a practice run, either that or Fisty Meat and the other guy were trying to start depriving him of his sleep. In which case they were a few days late –Clint wasn't sure how long, exactly, but he knew they were late to the party. The "let's not sleep" party. It wasn't really all that fun. Consisted of his Iowa farm, with Phil. But Phil was dead; he would never see the Iowa farm. And Natasha didn't like farms. Or his garden. He'd put a lot of time and effort into that, it wasn't right. His potatoes were the best. Because he made them. Grew them? Made them?

One of the soldiers flew back in the other direction and Clint sat up, blinking slowly as a familiar redhead danced her way through a mess of terrorists. There were a lot more people here than he thought were. He was going to be safe. Nat was here. That was – that was good, really good. One minute it seemed like Natasha was fighting and then the next, Captain America himself was busting down the door to his cell. Behind him was a guy –familiar, another S.H.I.E.L.D agent. Worked on STRIKE missions. Rum? Rummy? Rambo, maybe.

The next minute, he had an armful of Natasha as she pulled him to his feet.

"Fisty Meat had the key," he slurred. "Coulda just taken it from 'im. He's easy to – to find."

Natasha seemed to wince as she helped him over to Captain America and the other agent. "It was faster this way."

"Med-evac is waiting," Captain America said, dressed in a S.H.I.E.L.D uniform.

At least, Clint assumed that's what he must have said. He couldn't really distinguish the shapes his lips were making as he spoke –there wasn't enough light. There was never enough light, really.

"D'ya take a rusty spoon, Nat? He fuckin' deserved it," Clint said, wobbling on his feet as Captain America reached out a steadying hand. "Assholes, them guys," he said, pointing towards the torture chamber.

Natasha's expression darkened. "I took care of them," she said. "They died slowly and painfully."

Good. A rusty spoon probably would have been… too good, for Fisty Meat anyways. Everything after that faded out into a blur Clint couldn't possibly focus on. Too much light, no noise, too many people fussing over him. Sometime between stepping out and being strapped to a gurney, Clint passed out. Nat was here. She was going to make sure everything was fine.

When Clint woke up again, it took him way too long to realize what was wrong. What was different. The deafening, empty silence that filled each moment. It was the slightly dimmer lights, the white curtains and the IV in his arm that told him he was in medical. He didn't relax until he saw Natasha sitting on the chair next to his bed, novel spread out in front of her. With the hand free of the IV, he reached towards her and something must have happened because she lurched upright –as much as Natasha ever lurched, it was more as though she went from sitting to upright far too quickly –while a doctor bustled through the curtain barrier with two nurses at his side.

Clint didn't have the energy to _try_ and figure out what they were saying. Not that it mattered much, because a few short seconds later, and he was slipping unconscious again. Over the next few days, Clint was sure it had to be days, he had moments of lucidity. Each time, Natasha was there. One time, he swore he saw Captain America standing next to Fury as they chatted quietly but there was no way that was anything but some weird dream. Other times, he woke at the doctor's persistence, drank something he couldn't even taste before he was out cold again.

The second time he was awake for a substantial amount of time, Natasha was prepared. She had a whiteboard tucked between her and the chair.

"How long?" he asked, watching her.

If he was speaking too loud, she gave no indication of it. "Two months. You missed all the fun," she wrote.

Clint frowned. "Where were you?" he asked, worried. "You disappeared."

"They took me to a different location. I was in Turkey when I escaped. We found you in the middle of Italy," she wrote down.

Clint rubbed at his hand. "I want to go home."

"You can in a few days," she wrote. "Doctors want to run some tests first."

Clint grimaced. "What, they want to make sure I'm really deaf? Not faking it?"

Natasha scowled at him, swatting his foot. "They want to see if you have any hearing, if you might regain it," she wrote out.

"It's possible?" Clint asked, trying not to be too hopeful. He was desperate that he might be able to hear again. He relied on his hearing so much…

"Maybe," she wrote, giving him a look of caution. "They have to run some tests first."

In a few days, once he was able to stand and walk a bit, they wheeled him down to the audiologist and ran some tests. It didn't exactly leave him with a feeling of hope. But that evening Natasha came down to sit with him, a –reluctant? Uncertain? Captain America trailing along. There was no sign of Rumlow for which Clint was more grateful than he could express. He'd never liked the guy –Rumlow reminded him too much of Trickshot. They both liked inflicting pain and seemed to be the happier for it. Nat had always given him the same professional distance that she gave any agent who wasn't Clint, Phil or May. Rumlow didn't take it personally. Most days, agents had since learned to not take Clint or Natasha's silence and distance personally. Because if either of them meant to offend, they were good at it. Clint preferred sneak attacks from the air vents –Natasha's reputation was still fiercer than Clint's would ever be, she just had to arch an eyebrow and her target knew to walk in the opposite direction.

"Hey," Steve said, hovering at the door awkwardly. He moved his mouth slowly, letting Clint read the words. "Glad to see you're recovering."

Clint glanced at Natasha to see her covering a smile. She wasn't going to be any help. He turned back to Captain America. "Uh, thanks," he said awkwardly.

Captain Rogers hesitated, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "Well. Uh. I think –I'll just, go." He waved awkwardly before leaving the room. To Captain Rogers' credit, he didn't seem to be in any hurry as he left.

"When did that happen?" Clint tried to mutter, making an effort to make sure his voice was quiet.

Natasha paused, picking up the whiteboard again. "Fury assigned us to find you," she wrote. "He's not that bad of a guy."

Clint felt his eyebrows jump at that. "Hell of a compliment," he grunted out.

Natasha shrugged. "He's Captain America." And didn't that just say everything? "I would have come for you sooner, but I only got out of the hospital myself two days ago. Fury sent Rogers and Rumlow to get me; it just happened to coincide with my escape. They weren't as serious about keeping me locked up like they were with you."

Clint frowned. "Fury?" he asked.

Natasha wiped the board clear. "Stark challenged the Mandarin on national television got his mansion blown up. Presumed dead but his body wasn't found. He saved the President. Turns out the Vice-President was working with the Ten Rings." She cleared the board off again. "Fury's been busy."

And without his right-hand man, no doubt it was harder for him. Clint exhaled. Okay, so it made sense. "Tell me he got the assholes."

"Stark took out the Mandarin and finally got that surgery to clear out the shrapnel. He's signed on with S.H.I.E.L.D to help."

"What's with everyone joining S.H.I.E.L.D now?" Clint joked, his mind whirring with the impact of the world being without Iron Man. It was hard to imagine.

Natasha shrugged casually. "The world is changing."

It would be a while yet, before any of them realized how much everything was about to change. For Clint, the change started that morning when he woke up to find Fury walking into his room, a clipboard tucked under his arm as he took the unoccupied seat in the room. Wordlessly, Fury handed over the papers. Clint frowned as he looked them over, turning to Fury.

The first sheet was for medical leave for six months instead of the doctor's recommended eight. The next form was full of medical jargon and after reading it for a third time, Clint realized it had something to do with his hearing. The third page revealed what exactly it said –it was a requisitions form for a pair of hearing aids. The forth page was a notification sheet and must have been Fury's way of being courteous. A new team was to be formed under Fury's supervision, consisting of Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers and Brock Rumlow. Other operatives would be allowed to join depending on their need. With Clint out of commission for the next six months, he wasn't going to be part of that team.

Clint filled out his paperwork, grudgingly signing on for his six months of medical leave. At least he could go home. None of the forms were asking for his address either, which was a blessing. He didn't need everyone dropping in to visit him. Natasha was going to be busy with the new team from the sounds of it. Clint handed the forms back to Fury, glad for once that he didn't have to talk. Didn't have to try and figure out if he was speaking too loudly or too softly when he couldn't hear for himself. At least with the paperwork everything was right there. All the information he needed and no second guessing whether or not he had missed something.

Fury inclined his head minutely, an acknowledgement of his faith in Clint's survival. Clint wasn't sure how to feel about that. After Fury was gone, the doctors descended with chart paper and diagrams to explain what they wanted to do and needed to have done in order to see about the hearing aids. Clint signed off on the papers. At least he was alive. At least he could still use his arms and his vision was as good as ever. His career wasn't over. And they weren't even sending him to psych –not that he would have. The only time Clint had ever sat through a psych meeting willingly had been during his evaluation to see if he would function as an agent.

Nightmares were just nightmares. And really, since he'd been captured he hadn't had a single nightmare about Phil. Or The Bastard, for that matter. Mentally he was doing better. He didn't want to think about the physical tally of wounds he had going on. He was alive, it was enough for him. But, for one minute, sometime in the dead of night, his breath caught in chest as he turned to see the doorway. It was that strange sort of disconnected feeling, that alerted him when someone was watching. The nurses, nurses though, didn't stare. Drugged up, exhausted and aching in pain, Clint thought, for just a moment, that he saw Phil standing in the doorway.


	6. The Hardest Part

The Hardest Part

After a two week stay in the infirmary, they let him head home. One last round of x-rays had nearly changed the doctor's mind though when she realized Clint was sporting a hairline fracture on his arm. Which meant he couldn't drive. Clint couldn't remember the last time he had been on a public bus, but he was sure it had never been as agonizing as this. Trapped in a rattling tin can traveling at the speed of a snail from Washington, D.C to Iowa. It was nearly three days with the same seat-mate who wanted to _talk._

"Wow, look at those fields," she chattered.

At least that's what Clint thought she said. He'd taken his hearing aids out an hour into the ride. But he could, unfortunately, still see her reflection in the window. Honestly, Clint wasn't sure if she had even realized that he couldn't hear her. For the first time since he had lost his hearing, he was grateful for it. Having to endure seventy-two hours of endless talking was a different kind of torture that he was _not_ equipped to deal with.

Clint wobbled as he got to his feet, turning his hearing aids back on as he walked off the bus. Thank god that was over. But it wasn't the end of the public transportation for the day –he had to call a taxi. Clint still couldn't walk in a straight line and he didn't really want to be accosted by a police officer on his way home. It took fifteen minutes for the taxi to get there and another forty minutes before he got to his house. Where there was a small, ecology friendly car parked in front of his house. It looked out of place.

As out of place as the disheveled scientist sitting on the white wraparound porch, his head resting against the post, eyes shut. There was, notably, a chicken seated on Bruce's lap quite comfortably. But, why? Clint paid the cabbie and got out, wobbling up to his porch. Also, how did Banner even know he lived here? Clint paused, scanning his surroundings worriedly, making sure that there weren't any members of the army –Canadian or American –hiding out. He didn't see any but that wasn't reassuring.

"Should I be expecting the Canadian troops on my doorstep?" Clint asked, stopping a few feet from the doctor.

Bruce startled, sitting upright before smiling slightly. "Ah, no. No. The Other Guy didn't do anything –no incidents," he reassured.

"Did the chicken?" Clint asked without meaning to.

Bruce snorted. "Not that I'm aware of. It was here before I was –I thought it was yours."

Clint frowned down at the chicken. It clucked at him, fussing on Bruce's lap as it stared back with unintelligent amber eyes. "Well. I guess I should keep it."

"Probably?"

"So. What're you here for?" Clint asked, unlocking his front door.

Bruce paused for a moment, shooing the chicken off his lap as he got up. "Natasha asked me," he finally said, following after Clint.

Clint frowned as he shrugged his jacket off, mindful of his arm. "What? Did she send you to be my suicide watch?" he joked. "It's not like I've gone blind."

Bruce huffed. "She was worried you would starve, living on a diet of –"

"Don't say it," Clint cut him off. "Not another word."

Clint scowled at him suspiciously. Bruce held up his hands peacefully. "Just what she said."

Clint sighed. "There's another spare bedroom, if you want. Natasha claimed the one on the right." He gestured with his good arm.

"If you don't want me here, I can leave. Just when Natasha asked, I didn't think it was exactly in my best interests to refuse."

Clint laughed. "I'd like to see anyone try and say no to her. It doesn't really work out favorably."

Bruce gave a half-smile. "That's what I figured."

"So you're here to cook for me?"

"I'm under strict orders to not cook any potatoes," Bruce said, smirking.

Clint groaned. "I said not to say it."

It turned out that Bruce was a pretty good cook. And he didn't mind letting Clint watch as he did it. Phil used to find it distracting –partially because he wanted all his focus on cooking and because Clint wasn't a good student. At least not with Phil, not when they were already together. Watching Bruce was different. Bruce was less focused on what he was doing –whereas Phil had wanted to make sure everything was perfect for them, Bruce was more relaxed about it. Phil never got mad when Clint tried to distract him, intentionally or otherwise, he'd always laugh and chase him from the kitchen.

But Bruce did neither. He kept quiet, tossing in spices and herbs that Clint didn't even know he had. Until he spotted the recent paper bags shoved into his garbage can, the unique imprint of the town's shopping mark pressed on them. Either Natasha had been by ahead of Bruce –which wouldn't really be a surprise, or Bruce had more skill than Clint had given him credit for. Breaking into and back out of his house? It might be time to get higher security on this place. Clint gave a little huff at that –he was nearly twenty hours away from the nearest Avenger, and yet they still managed to find him and break into his house.

Maybe he should just call Stark, ask for him to make a security system. Clint stopped his thoughts there. If he asked Stark, he'd probably end up with a holographic A.I and ray guns ready to kill the first intruder. Or moving target. The thought was more disturbing than reassuring –Tasha could get hurt, or the chicken. And –what did chickens even eat? Where did they sleep? Cats were easy. So were dogs. Somehow, Clint didn't think that he could just walk into the supermarket and find chicken food there, set out and labeled for them. He'd never seen any before so it stood to reason it wasn't going to be there. Maybe that whole plan about getting some cattle wasn't such a great one because Clint didn't know what they _ate_. If he kept the chicken alive, it'd be a miracle.

Dinner was a quiet affair but it wasn't tense either. It was a natural silence. It wasn't until Bruce took his plate to wash the dishes that Clint caught the glint of gold on his fourth digit.

"You're married?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

"Oh, uh," Bruce paused, glancing at his ring. "Yeah. It's new."

"Congrats," Clint said, softly. He froze; his tone too gentle and sincere. "Y'know, on losing your single freedom-hood and all."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I didn't exactly spend much time living up the life. It's no great loss."

Clint knew exactly what he meant. At the circus there was just enough freedom for some experimentation but Clint had bigger concerns. Being an assassin didn't provide anymore freedom between running for his life and trying to get enough money to eat. Like most of the other S.H.I.E.L.D agents, they were kept out of country and in violent situations often enough that starting a relationship had never been a priority for them.

It was an all-too painful reminder of how everything might have changed for the better. Clint made a hasty excuse, stumbling his way upstairs to his own room under the guise that he was feeling suddenly tired. All told, Clint had wasted too much time. Time he could have spent with Phil –neither of them had forever. Since Phil had brought Clint into S.H.I.E.L.D, their time had been limited. Clint hadn't realized it soon enough –the shortness of the time he would have with Phil. He also hadn't realized he was in _love_ with Phil for way too long. The years Natasha spent dropping subtle hints between them. Clint smiled to himself as he hobbled into his room. Phil used to put on cheesy romance movies at the end of a very long day –something mindless and fake, totally normal and far removed from their lives. Clint didn't have some epiphany that he loved Phil, one day. There was no big moment.

What there was was Phil sitting alone in a safe house, his nose buried in a book. Extraction wasn't due for another forty-eight hours. It had been an intelligence gathering milk-run of assignment, so they were both relaxing. Clint had just come in with an armful of firewood, set it down and when he looked up, he saw Phil. Phil who had been there the whole time, for years. Phil who sat vigil beside Clint's bedside when there was no one else, long before Natasha started to relieve Phil of the duty. Phil, who had tracked Clint down to a diner in the pouring rain, chased after him, cornered him in an alley and shot him in the leg. For Clint's own good, even if it took him months to realize. Months to stop the petty teenage angst that gnawed in his gut every time he saw Phil. S.H.I.E.L.D was the best thing that could have happened to Clint, had happened to him. Until that very moment, when he was standing in a drafty safe house in the middle of Alaska, watching Phil. Ten years spent in combat, life threatening situations, through hostage scenarios, assassinations, and seductions, even through business meetings. Phil was there.

People used to think Phil lied when they asked him about it. The odd ones who did, usually when they got caught doing an undercover mission. Natasha's reaction was the best though. Phil would just say, "It was the single most unromantic confession of my life." But he would smile, just a little twitch of his lips and his eyes would crease happily. And Clint knew that Phil had loved it, because it was a moment just for them. (When Natasha heard? She just said, "So romantic, I'm surprised you didn't swoon Coulson." Clint could never live it down –and he hadn't wanted to).

The wood had tumbled from Clint's hands and he had jumped back, narrowly avoiding breaking his foot with the logs. Phil startled and turned to him, scanning the house for a threat, on alert. Just as Clint stared at him in bafflement and announced, "I love you."

Phil had flashed this adorably confused expression. "That was the single most unromantic confession I think I've ever received."

Clint had huffed out a bubble of nervous laughter. "I… Phil, I love you," he repeated again, awed by the newfound feeling.

Phil blinked, setting his book aside slowly. "Are you…?"

"Serious? Very," Clint muttered, walking towards him. His heart racing. He stopped before Phil, uncertain, watching him closely.

Phil gaped at him, his eyes wide. Slowly, Clint ran his tongue over his lips, staring at Phil in wonder. How had he never noticed –? How had he never _realized_? Clint's gaze lowered, slid to Phil's lips, curious and aching with a longing he didn't know he'd ever felt before. He was never sure who moved first, but the next thing he knew, they were kissing. It was fast and a little desperate, like they were both afraid that they wouldn't have enough time.

Clint exhaled shakily, sitting down on his bed uneasily. The best thing that had ever happened to him, and he screwed it up. Phil was dead. And Clint was lonely and miserable without him –enough that he dreamed about him, hallucinated him in a drugged state because _Phil was dead_. Clint had to move on. If Natasha knew… if anyone knew… Clint needed to work, needed to distract himself with work. He was on medical leave for six months. If he sat around and wallowed, even he wasn't sure what would happen to him. Start hallucinating Phil? Clint scrubbed a hand over his face.

He could probably paint with his good arm. It's not like the place needed to look all that great, but the porch definitely needed some work. And he had to get rid of that ugly yellow. It could not stick around. Purple would be a better choice. He'd have to ask Bruce if he wouldn't mind buying some paint because there was no way Clint was going to endure the hellish torture of public transportation again. As much as he hated the red monstrosity that was his truck, he missed driving it already. And more than that, he missed his bow. S.H.I.E.L.D made him a new one that he had brought back with him, but too much strain or strenuous activity could wreck his arm worse than it already was. And Clint just wanted to get better sooner.

Clint removed his hearing aids, setting them aside for the night as he slowly undressed. They told him that the Ten Rings had held him captive for two months. Most of his clothes were too big on him, but it wouldn't take much for him to regain the weight he had lost at least. For now though, he was taking it slow. Clint lay back, staring up at the ceiling. Determinedly focusing on the repairs and work that needed to be done on his house and nothing else. Sleep didn't come easy, but at least it did come and spare him from the dull repetitious thoughts. However, it did nothing for his dreams or the nightmares.

It was the world's dumbest argument, really. Clint couldn't even remember how it started. It was just a haze of anger and frustration, that Phil had missed another date. Suddenly, it was like Clint wasn't good enough for Phil, that his work was more important. Of course Phil's work was important –world security was at risk. Clint knew that. He just wasn't thinking when Phil came back in the middle of the night, too exhausted to be apologetic. Clint hadn't been thinking, because looking back on that night, he couldn't really remember what he had said. Nothing too offensive or confidence breaking but… What he did remember was Phil standing there, suit wrinkled, completely exhausted, saying: "Fine then. Let's take a break. I'll be Agent Coulson, you be Agent Barton. Let me know if you change your mind."

It didn't take Clint a week to realize he was being an ass. But it took him that long to figure out why he had been an ass and apologize for it. Agent Coulson took one look at him, poised at his doorway with his apology. "Barton," he said coolly, then paused. "Clint. I don't want to hear your apology. Not unless you have a plan to deal with, this. I can't – I'm not going to go through this again."

And Clint had known that his apology wasn't enough. He gave it anyways and spent the next month and a half trying to come up with an idea on how to prove to Phil that he was serious. Clint couldn't run from everything and he didn't even want to run from Phil. He wasn't sure how he ended up running when he hadn't meant to, but he needed to do something to prove that he wasn't going to do it again. So Clint went out and bought a promissory ring, because the decision was up to Phil. Engagement rings weren't scarier but… this decision had to be Phil's. It was Clint's promise to him that he wasn't going to run, that he wanted to be serious and stable with Phil. That he was sorry for running.

_It was the Italian restaurant Clint had invited Phil to. Except it was dark and cold, blue flames glittering ominously in the darkness. There was no noise. But Phil was seated at the table, smiling like nothing was out of place. But Clint couldn't shake the ominous feeling, even as the shadowed waiter walked up to their table and set the ring down. The box was small, thin and elegant. And Phil looked across at him, eyes wide with surprise, his mouth opening and closing as he spoke. But Clint couldn't hear him, couldn't define what the words were. And the blue lights wavered and there was a voice in his head –"You have heart," it said, echoing and the blue swelled up around him. _

_And when Clint came back to himself, the scepter was in his hand, straight through Phil's heart. His blood splattered across the white linen. The lights flickered suddenly, turning from cold icy blue to bright white lights that exposed the ruin of the restaurant, the dead civilians and the shattered ring. _

Clint woke up with a panicked start and immediately jumped into a series of breathing exercises. He glanced at his phone hopefully but it was barely two hours later than when he had fallen asleep. So much for hoping the dreams were dead and gone. Apparently torture was the best method to prevent them. Bruce had probably spent enough time with the army types; he might have some creative methods that he could employ. Clint inhaled deeply, his feet bouncing. What was he _doing_? Actually contemplating getting tortured? Because he could handle the pain better than he could cope with his nightmares?

Six or seven months after New York and he was still… Clint grabbed his phone, thumbed through his contacts until he found the name he was looking for. Belatedly he grabbed his hearing aids and turned them back on; dialing the number for the only shrink he had ever seen at S.H.I.E.L.D. Back during his first year when he was having psych evaluations conducted regularly. She had insisted he keep her number, just in case. He was a mess.

"Hello?" came the mumbled, sleepy response.

"This is Agent Barton," he forced himself to say. "I think I… might need to talk to someone."

There was some rustling. "I'm here to listen, Agent Barton," she said. "I have to say; normally I don't take late calls but… What would you like to talk about?"

"Phil –Agent Coulson. Just…" Clint fidgeted.

"It's alright Agent Barton," she said gently. "Whenever you're ready. Wherever you want to start."

"I killed him," Clint blurted, confessed. "I loved him and I killed him. I got thirty-one others killed –but Phil, I… I killed him." His voice broke.

"You didn't, agent," she said. "Loki did. You had no control of your actions." In the background he heard a door close.

"Fuck," Clint swore. "The Bastard just asked me… and I told him. I told him everything. How to kill –how to –I screwed up. I screwed up so much."

And for the first time since Clint was a child, since Barney and Trickshot had left him to die, Clint wept.


	7. All Fall Down

Clint Barton's No Good, Very Bad Week

Bruce turned out to be pretty handy to have around. He actually knew plenty about common household repairs. And how to properly fix a fence. The best part was probably the fact that Bruce didn't _mind_ teaching. He stayed around for the first month, helping Clint fix up the place and in the meantime he taught Clint how to cook proper food. Just a few recipes here and there. The day after he was gone, Clint found that Bruce had left him a few recipe cards to start his own collection. For all the time Bruce spent at the farm, he never once indicated who his new spouse was. Clint had a suspicious feeling that Bruce had not married his girlfriend, but that something had changed in his life recently. Bruce neither confirmed nor denied this no matter how much pushing Clint tried.

In honor of Bruce's visit, Clint named the chicken Banner. It seemed… appropriate somehow. He just hoped that he would never walk out one day and find that his chicken could suddenly spout fire when it got angry. The calmer, the better. He called Kase up to let the other man know he was back and that he'd be around for a while. Kase brought him a welcome back chicken. Clint wasn't sure if this was some sort of indoctrination into the farming life, but it was nice having fresh eggs handy. Kase named a couple of the farm supply shops around town and pointed out that Clint had a chicken coop. He hadn't realized that's what it was –he'd thought the smaller building was just some sort of shed located out of the way. Kase laughed and showed him around the property, explaining. Not even a little frustrated by Clint's lack of knowledge.

Every night, like clockwork, Clint phoned his psychologist. The records went under his alias, Flint Martin, because he called her off work hours. The conversation they had had around the name of his alias hadn't been great, either. Back when he and Phil had just started dating, they got assigned to an in-depth field assignment. Their cover? Charles Martin and his new husband Flint. It felt like he was living in a dream, those four months of undercover work. It was hard to be dating Phil, working with Coulson and acting like Flint Martin car mechanic all at once. But it was nice, too. It felt like they were serious and they spent a lot of time together. Phil taught Clint how to dance; Clint taught Phil how to ride a horse. They used to have a pair at the circus, trained to do stunts that looked impressive and terrifying. There wasn't much risk to it –their handlers knew how to work with them.

Clint couldn't say when it happened, but it was around the time he got the all-clear from his doctor that he didn't need to wear the sling anymore. But it seemed to be a little easier to breathe. A little easier to just… exist. Spring had come again and Clint bought another copy of gardening for dummies and every vegetable seed he could find. Except potatoes. He never read the book, he set it down and when he turned back to look for it, it was gone. He didn't worry about it.

Natasha dropped by sometimes, just for a day, before she was off. She gave him a hug last time, mentioned that he seemed better. It wasn't until she was driving away, that Clint realized it had been at least a month since his last nightmare. Since he had thought about the names and faces of every agent he'd been responsible for killing. He hadn't yet come to agree with his shrink, but he could acknowledge she had a point. It wasn't _all_ on him. He wanted to fight with her decision on that, argue and insist it was his fault, that he was still the one who had carried out his actions. But Mary Allan was an experienced shrink and she happened to have worked with Natasha when she first came in.

"Clint," Mary said patiently. "Do you blame Natasha for what she did when she was under the Red Room's control?"

"No," he said vehemently.

"Then why are you blaming yourself for what The Bastard did?"

Mary was cool that way –she seemed to know that Clint couldn't bear to hear the name of the alien without freaking out. She had taken to calling him The Bastard as well with no hesitation. Clint never did have an answer for her. But it gave him something to think about at night. And as time passed, it was a little easier to talk about Phil. To share what Clint's plans had been. He'd never told Natasha –didn't want to jinx it.

"Do you think you might want to talk to Natasha about that?" Mary asked. Maybe when he saw Natasha again, he would mention it. If she was up to talking about him.

It was kind of sad, Clint realized as he weeded his garden. For all the years he and Phil had known one another, for the all the work related events they got dragged to, Clint didn't have a single picture of Phil. He hadn't had any at his New York apartment either, but he had some mementos and gifts Phil had given over the years. It was strange to realize that with the destruction of his apartment, he lost what little of Phil he might have been able to physically carry.

Clint spent more time at his farm than he did in town. If he ran out of ingredients, he still had packs of ramen and macaroni lying around. Despite Mary's urging, Clint refused to go out and socialize. Natasha was his friend, and Bruce and he had become closer. They exchanged the rare text. There was Kase as well, who phoned every other night to ask how the farm was going and to chatter away. Apparently it was just a neighborly thing to do.

It was why Clint didn't know until two weeks after the fact, that Thor had come back to Earth. He was standing in line, a carton of eggs in hand when he saw the newspaper and nearly had a panic attack right then and there. Of the Avengers, Clint knew the least about Thor. He paid for the smashed eggs and bought a new carton before hurrying out to sit, locked inside his truck as he breathed in and out. When he had calmed down, he put his truck in reverse and backed out of his parking spot before heading home. He'd missed the crisis entirely –considering Nat hadn't phoned him, he was willing to bet her and Steve were in the middle of a mission when everything went down. He sent Bruce a text, just a heads up that London was wrecked after Thor stopped in for a visit.

He was halfway to his farm when he spotted a white cardboard box to the side of the road, a mangy mutt trying to get out of it. There was no one around, and by the looks of it no one would be coming by for their dog. It seemed friendly enough despite the missing eye, slight limp and crooked tail. Clint held his hand out and the dog gave a happy sniff before licking his hand. Clint got him into the cab of his truck and promptly drove back to town, to the nearest vet. There was nothing they could do for the dog's old injuries. What they could do was give Clint some medicine that would ease the pain the dog was in, guesstimate its age and tell him it was definitely a male and had been put through some horrific abuse.

Clint adopted him, filled out the papers and paid for the medication and food they provided. He drove Lucky home. He had to admit, for one minute, he had been awfully tempted to name him Fury. But he didn't have an early death wish whatever anyone said and like the veterinarian had said, the dog was one lucky guy. Lucky fit in easily with Tasha and Banner, he discovered the next morning when he looked out on the porch and found the three of them sleeping in a fur pile.

Over the remaining month and a half of his medical leave, he ended up buying another chicken. Banner was looking kind of lonely on his own. It only seemed fitting to name Banner's new partner Stark. Clint hid a smile of his own –he didn't know what Stark-the-scientist would say if he ever found out, but Clint wanted to be there if he ever did find out. With his fence rebuilt thanks to Bruce and the porch finally painted up, Clint started looking through ads for other farm animals he could adopt or rescue. When he came across the ad about two geldings, he knew. Clint contacted the owners and by the end of the week, he had two horses fenced in. One was blonde and the other a dark brown, almost the shadow to the blonde horse.

Clint was puttering around the house, making breakfast while he watched the horses adapt to their new environment. At first, he had been a little worried how Lucky, Banner and Stark would adjust –Tasha could take care of herself –but Lucky gave each horse a cursory sniff and seemed satisfied. Stark spent half the night clucking irritably like the disapproving mother hen she was but she had settled down now, seemed content to follow them around. Banner didn't let her out of sight. It was kind of funny, really. The blonde horse would meander over; nibbling on some grass and the darker colored horse would kind of shuffle along with the blonde. And then Stark would come clucking over, chest puffed up like a feathery rooster, Banner trailing behind her. Sometimes Lucky joined in. If Tasha was around, she was watching them disdainfully. It was obvious what their names would be, watching the parade with amusement. And that was how blonde horse became Steven and his shadowy partner became Buchanan. Phil would have been proud or at the very least amused.

The last month of his medical leave finished very quickly. Fury called him back in and sent him out on a few milk runs, making sure he was back in top shape. Clint had been practicing at home as soon as he was able. He aced the missions, as much as he ever did. Objective accomplished. He spent his days between missions back at the farmhouse, making sure his farm was doing fine without him. His garden still growing, his animals still breathing.

Within another month, Clint was back on rotation on foreign ops. Clint was too grateful about being back in the field to question it. While he was gone, Kase looked after the place for him. Clint left him money in case he ever needed it. But it was nice, sort of, in its own way. The familiarity of the job, the fact that Fury never sent him to work with anyone who side-eyed him about New York. He stopped calling Mary gradually and the nightmares only happened once a month or so. It didn't hurt quite so much when he thought of Phil. It was more like ripping a Band-Aid off quickly, than someone stabbing him repetitively. The first day off he and Natasha had, he went to her place and took out Phil's bag of clothes.

"I… I'd figured out how to say sorry," Clint admitted, taking a shot of vodka. "Picked out a ring. Had the manager hold onto it, 'case I lost it." Phil's bag of clothes sat on the floor between them. "Didn't want to say somethin' and jinx it."

Clint allowed himself to get drunk and he crashed on Natasha's couch that night. When he woke up, Natasha gleefully played him back a recording of him drunkenly singing "Old MacDonald had a farm." It was her new ringtone for him. She must have been waiting a while for the opportunity. They didn't bring up Phil again, but when Clint got home, one of Phil's shirts was missing. So was one of Clint's. He smiled sadly at the bag and took one shirt out, Phil's old S.H.I.E.L.D sweater before zipping the bag and shoving it under his bed.

The missions got progressively harder and it was during an op in Egypt when Clint was attacked. The guy wasn't even from S.H.I.E.L.D and he had nothing to do with Clint's target. It was Scarlotti. Clint knew him from his days as a mercenary, when his reputation really started to skyrocket after he took out Scarlotti's target. The man didn't deal all that well with being shown up. Apparently he'd heard Clint was in Egypt and decided to drop in with his cutthroat back-up. The S.H.I.E.L.D agents Clint had come with were on the streets gathering the Intel they needed.

"Barton!" barked Cooper, his latest handler. "Finish it up already."

Scarlotti was a force to be reckoned with on his own right and he didn't just pick up common thugs to work for him. He made sure he picked blood thirsty professional criminals who knew their way around guns and knives. Scarlotti alone, Clint could handle. Even his ragtag cutthroats if Scarlotti wasn't there. But as it stood, Scarlotti knew too much about Clint and he had the advantage of surprise. Clint didn't have time to grab the rifle before Scarlotti's rope dart flashed out, narrowly missing Clint's hand.

"Need some help here!" Clint hissed, ducking away from Scarlotti. The guy wasn't wasting his opportunity a second time.

"He's just some nut Barton," Cooper bitched. "I am not calling this op just 'cuz you can't deal with some two-bit hit-man."

"Fuck you!" Clint spat, ducking Scarlotti's weapon and running at him.

Scarlotti changed direction abruptly, the rope flashing closer at him and Clint ducked to the side, ramming his shoulder into the nearest mercenary before he threw him off the building. Clint wasn't surprised when Scarlotti's dart sliced across his exposed arm. Clint hissed in pain, twisting away before the assassin could catch him with the rope. Clint spun, reacting as the first of Scarlotti's mercenaries reached him, disarming the first and shoving him into the second that was approaching. It wasn't a surprise when the blade embedded itself into the back of Clint's shoulder. Scarlotti yanked the rope back, dragging Clint towards him.

Clint yelled in pain. "I'm outnumbered here and if you wanna be the one to tell Fury you let me get killed that's on you!" Clint snarled at Cooper, drawing a knife from his pocket and slashing at the cord. Fuck, it was synthetic and he could barely reach it.

Clint was just starting to attempt to saw through it as Scarlotti moved in to wrap the cord around his neck. Damn the guy wanted to take care of things personally. Clint twisted, scrambling to his feet with difficulty as he felt the blood dripping down his back. He ducked out from the loop Scarlotti had made before the man could get it in place. Scarlotti's mercenaries fell on him and Clint was locked into a desperate battle for his life, focusing only on dodging and hitting whenever he could. Clint's knife flew from his hand –not that it was much use here as he was surrounded, taking punches to his unprotected mid-section. Meanwhile Scarlotti gave his leash a painful twist that wrenched the dart from his back but swept his feet out from under him.

"All agents report to Hawkeye's position," Cooper ground out.

Clint grabbed onto the cord of the rope dart before Scarlotti could get it out from under him and jerked it forwards. With the slack he now had present, he swung the loop around one mercenary's neck and stabbed the dart into his comrade. Clint released the cord and the slack vanished as Scarlotti yanked it back –killing both mercenaries in the process. With a snarl of rage, Scarlotti whipped his dart back and swung it at Clint. Preparing to avoid it, Clint was caught off guard when the last mercenary shoved him into the line of danger. At the last second Clint hooked his foot between the mercenary's and shoved him off the edge of the building, following after him seconds later. The dart slammed into the back of Clint's Kevlar uniform and wrenched him back up onto the roof before Scarlotti was advancing, hauling Clint towards him.

Scarlotti flicked his wrist and the dart flew free of Clint's uniform as he got to his feet. With another quick slash the rope sailed through the air and abruptly cut, wrapping around Clint's neck like a vice. Scarlotti's eyes flashed wickedly as though he was certain of his success. Clint clawed at the cord around his neck desperately as he tried to get air into his lungs but he couldn't loosen the rope. Shit. He tried harder, but the world was beginning to gray out dangerously when gunshots echoed behind him. Scarlotti vanished, but left his rope wrapped around Clint's neck like some twisted bowtie. Clint was nearly unconscious out by the time the agents who had come to his rescue unwrapped the cord from his neck and Clint coughed and hacked, inhaling air desperately.

Cooper called the operation off and hauled them all back to the jet. It wasn't until then that one of S.H.I.E.L.D's paramedics took a look at him, cleaning the gouge in his back and arms before wrapping them. His uniform was going to have to be burned –the Kevlar had protected the worst of the damage, but come tomorrow he was going to be black and blue and not wanting to get out of bed for a week. Cooper didn't care though. The whole flight from Cairo to Washington, DC, he kept glaring at Clint as he wrote up the report.

_Well_, Clint thought tiredly, _at least I won't have to work with him again_. It would be a welcome change. At least no one said anything anymore. When he was first starting out as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent it was all anyone could talk about –how Clint was incapable of keeping one steady handler. Until Coulson. At least Cooper didn't bring that up, but he did march off to Fury's office. Figuring it would be easier than getting summoned in twenty minutes, Clint followed a respectable distance behind his handler as Cooper barged into Fury's office, door swinging shut behind him.

Fury was paranoid enough that his office was soundproofed. Whatever Cooper had to say, wasn't getting back outside. In the many years Clint had been dragged here, to sit outside the office and forcibly wait until the shouting match was over, Clint never did hear a word of the exchange. He had seen and heard what made it to the final reports. It was never fun sitting outside Fury's office, waiting. Reminded him of what little time he had spent in school, waiting for the principal to see him. At least Fury was a rational person. Slightly paranoid and angrier than the average person, but rational.

"If Coulson's the only one who could handle him, then Coulson should have to deal with his own goddamn problems!" Cooper exploded, slamming the door open as he stormed out. "None of us want to deal with that traitor –either give him to Coulson or kill him 'cuz nobody's gonna be workin' with him again!"

It was a miracle the halls were empty.

The world seemed to slow down as Clint processed what he heard, getting to his feet uneasily as he shuffled to Fury's office, catching the door before it could shut.

"Sir?" Clint asked uneasily, hating the way his voice wobbled.

Fury glanced up, his eye widening. "Fuck. Barton –" He got to his feet.

Clint shook his head, taking half a step back. "Why –?" Why would Cooper know something about Coulson, but not Clint or Natasha?

"It's classified to Level Seven agents," Fury interrupted. "His death brought the Avengers together. If we need them again –and we will –we need them as a cohesive unit."

"You mean," Clint bit out, "you mean you need them under your thumb. _You_ need Stark and Rogers to play nice. Just in case." Because Fury was all about the bigger picture. Of course he would keep… "How?" Clint snarled. "How did he survive?"

And why hadn't Phil let him know?

"We got to him in time, our surgeons are the best. He spent a few months recuperating."

Clint didn't hear a word he said. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, as the realization hit. Maybe Phil hadn't come because he knew it was Clint's fault. What other reason was there? Phil had died –had nearly died –been taken out of the field, separated from his friends and co-workers because of _Clint_. He wasn't even aware that he had fled the room until he found himself hidden in a ventilator shaft above an unused storage room, his cell phone pressed to his ear as he waited for Natasha to pick up.

She didn't. She had just gotten back from a mission less than a week ago; he thought she would have taken a day or two off. Apparently not.

It figured. It just... figured. Clint didn't get lucky breaks in his life. He wasn't sure how long he stared at the phone, waiting for Natasha or… waiting for Natasha to call back. She didn't. He followed the air duct back to Fury's office when it didn't hurt as much to breathe and dropped his badge on the man's desk. Fury must have left for a minute or two. Clint dug out every tracker he knew about and left them in the ductwork above Fury's office. He could have a field day with that.

Clint left his bike in S.H.I.E.L.D's parking garage, bought a bus ticket with the cash he had on him and went to his Ohio safe house to stay the night. He needed more cash to cover the fare to get him to Iowa. It was a sixteen hour long bus ride, torturous in the agonizing slow pace from one stop to the next. It left him alone with his thoughts, with his guilt and confusion. He hated himself most for thinking, expecting that Coulson would call. He'd had a year and a half already. It didn't feel that long, but it had been. A year and half at least since the Battle of New York. Since Coulson had died –had nearly died. And what? Clint thought his knowing was going to change anything? Impatient, Clint swept a hand through his hair, his foot bouncing irritably. No. It wasn't going to change anything –nothing had changed.

Except when he got to his Ohio safe house, S.H.I.E.L.D was waiting. Of course Fury couldn't take no for an answer. Clint stiffened as he walked up to the agents. They were lucky he was too tired and exhausted to do anything but approach.

"Look, guys," he said peaceably. "I don't want any trouble but you can tell Fury –"

"Fury's dead," Yung ground out. "Steve Rogers killed him. Secretary Pierce wants to see you."

"Ha, funny," Clint said, looking between the agents. Their expressions tightened. Clint frowned, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. "No, really, who did it?"

"Steve Rogers," Yung repeated.

"Captain America? Like… _the_ Captain America?" Clint looked between them, watching as each agent shifted their weight, hands going for their guns. "The guy who helped save New York, rebuilt it from the ground?" He didn't add that Steve voluntarily went with Natasha to retrieve Clint from the Ten Rings.

"We know, it doesn't… it doesn't make sense," confessed one of the agents. A brand new Level Four clearance. "But Director Fury is dead and Steve Rogers is on the run. Secretary Pierce wants to see you, Agent Barton."

So they didn't know he'd quit, dropped his badge on Fury's desk and left. Clint looked between the three trained agents standing on the doorstep to his safe house. He catalogued his own injuries –the pain that had started to ache in his back and legs. Nothing about this situation was right. Clint wasn't weaponless; he had his bow in his pocket. The three agents were decent fighters, but it was the fact that it was all three of them together. Something about it didn't sit right.

Clint eased his position into a relaxed stance. "What's someone like the Secretary of Defense want with me? I'm no one important."

The three agents looked between themselves uneasily. The youngest spoke up. "It-it would seem that Agent Romanoff is aiding Steve."

Clint arched a brow slowly and gave an easy shrug. All three of them relaxed. Honestly. In the next second, Clint's bow was in his hand and Yung was unconscious. He swung his bow, knocking against the other two agents' heads before they could react. What the hell was going on? Clint raced down to his room, ignoring the pain as he grabbed the remainder of his cash. His other safe houses were probably still safe; this was the only one he hadn't been overly cautious with. It wasn't a surprise S.H.I.E.L.D knew where it was.

Clint dumped his ids, grabbed every fake id he had in his safe and took off to Texas. Each state he passed through, he burned the id and waited a few hours to see when S.H.I.E.L.D was going to show up. They almost caught him in Tennessee. Until Clint realized his hearing aids both contained a small GPS implant. By the time he got to Texas, he hadn't seen another S.H.I.E.L.D agent and he was fairly certain that whoever was after him wasn't even S.H.I.E.L.D. Using his Flint Martin identification to make sure it hadn't been compromised as well, Clint boarded the nearest flight going to Des Moines, Iowa. It was close enough to home.

No one was waiting for him when he got there. Clint lingered as long as he was willing to make sure no one was waiting or following him before he called a taxi for a fifteen minute drive back to his farm. And fuck anyone if they came to kill him. Clint paid the cab driver, stumbled upstairs and into bed, his bow within reach before he passed out. Everything was blurred together. But Fury was dead, Coulson was alive and who the fuck knew what else. Hopefully no one else was dead. Clint passed out the minute his head hit the pillow.


	8. You are my Sunshine

You Are My Sunshine

It was splashed across the front pages of every newspaper and media station the country had. S.H.I.E.L.D has fallen written on their front page or some variance about the fall of a secret government organization. No one knew what was going on, from what Clint could tell. There was open speculation about whether or not it was an act of terrorism led by Captain America and the Black Widow or some other organization. It was hard given that only half the stations provided captions –as though it was such brand new information they couldn't bother to caption it or something. The worst part about the loss of his hearing aids was definitely that he couldn't get in contact with Natasha. She kept phoning, leaving a voicemail –at least he assumed it was her, but he couldn't call her back. When he tried to text her number, he was informed someone else was using it. And it wasn't as though he could hear the messages she left or ask Kase to do it. Clint wasn't sure what she had said and the very last thing he needed was for his identity to get out.

They must have run out of ways to speculate on what was going on as the media cut back to a scene showing Natasha exiting from the congressional meeting she'd been drawn into. He was suddenly glad that he had burned all of his aliases up. It cut back to the reporters, caption boxes reading "Where are the Avengers now?" with a blurry picture of his face next to Bruce's. And then it cut to an entertainment news segment of Tony as he walked out to his car, the reporters shoving microphones at his face. Tony didn't even look irritated, he rolled his eyes jovially and leaned back against one of his fancy sports cars –Clint thought it might have been the Mercedes, but it was hard to tell given that the focus was on Tony.

"Mr. Stark, what is your opinion on Captain America's involvement with the destruction of S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"I think it's a great tragedy we've lost an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D, in light of this, I plan to step forward and take care of the Avengers Initiative."

"What do you think of the Black Widow's involvement? Is it possible she's been here spying for Russia this whole time?"

Clint glared at the television screen. Jesus, someone gets outted as being Russian and the first thing anyone wants to know is if they're a spy or working for Putin. As if Natasha would ever work for someone like Putin. Let alone return to the hellhole she escaped from, never mind the douche-y assholes she'd have to put up with it to get there.

Tony gave a tight lipped smile to the cameraman before opening his car door.

"Mr. Stark!" shouted one of the reporters, surging past the first reporter. "Mr. Stark do you know the current whereabouts of Hawkeye or the Hulk? Are they alright?"

Tony paused as he got in his car, turning to flash a smug grin at the nearest camera before casually reaching out to adjust his side mirror. There was no way his car didn't have electronically controlled adjustments. Therefore, the glint of gold on his finger was immediately noticed. Clint stared at the screen despondently as the headlines flashed up. "Tony Stark –Married?! Who's his partner –Hawkeye or Bruce?"

Clint pulled out his phone and tapped Bruce's name. "Your _husband_ just outted me on national television. Not cool, man."

Seconds later his phone buzzed. "It's Tony. He doesn't know how to keep secrets."

Clint frowned. "It's not like I ever told him anything." He'd barely exchanged more than a half a dozen words with the guy at any one point in time.

"The cellist in Portland," came Bruce's response. "He figured it out."

Clint gaped at his phone before tossing his cell away from him as he got to his feet. He'd definitely been sitting around for way too long. He headed into the kitchen, nearly tripping over Tasha on the way. He bent down, picking her up. She opened her mouth, giving either a long yawn or a meow before she butted her head against his mouth. Clint laughed, shifting her easily as he carried her further into the kitchen towards her food dish. Which was empty, unsurprisingly. That was really the only reason why Tasha would break into his house (really, she just walked in through the open window he left for her).

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine," Clint sang absently as he walked back over to the bag of kitty food. He could feel Tasha's happy purr as he scooped up a cupful of kibble. "You make me happy when skies are grey, you never know dear, how much I love you," he sang quietly, hoping he was still in approximation of the tune. He dumped the cup into her bowl before turning to fill it again. He pet her absently. "Please don't take my sunshine away," he continued, filling her bowl the rest of the way before tossing the cup over his shoulder and into the food bag.

"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping," he sang to Tasha, lifting her up. "I dreamt I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken, so I hung my head, and I cried."

Tasha reached up and set her paw over his lips, looking at him pleadingly. With a quiet chuckle, Clint turned and carefully set her down in front of her dish, petting her gently. He had only a millisecond of panic when he felt someone's hand settle on his shoulder before he was moving automatically, grabbing his assailant's arm and wrenching it back behind him. Distantly he was aware that his attacker had relaxed, allowing Clint to move him without resisting. Clint felt the adrenaline pounding around him as he cautiously moved around to get a better look at the face of his attacker.

It was the emotional equivalent of being sucker punched, Clint decided as he stumbled away from Phil. If it was anyone else, he would have been concerned about how easily Phil had been able to sneak up on him. Even without his hearing aids, Clint relied heavily on senses other than physical. He relied on instinct just as much and if it had been someone able to slip by, he would have been concerned. As it was, it was Phil. _Phil_. He'd spent the last month resolutely ignoring him, trying to pretend that he had forgotten what Fury had said. That Phil was alive. Even if Clint wanted to, he wasn't able to tell anyone. To ask Natasha for confirmation because that was the first thing he planned to do.

Phil stood up slowly, his hands away from his body to show he wasn't a threat. As though Clint didn't know what Phil was capable of doing. Why was he even here? Clint took another wary step back, watching Coulson guardedly. But it was obvious it wasn't Coulson who was here, with how open and _aching_ Phil's expression was. He was staring at Clint as though he was physically pained himself.

Phil made an effort to put his expression back together, to something more neutral. It didn't really work. There were lines around his eyes, sympathy and regret in his blue eyes and the distance between them. Phil raised his left hand in a closed fist, making a wide circle on the front of his chest. Clint snorted, staring at him in disbelief as he shook his head. No, no. Sorry? Sorry wasn't good _enough_. It didn't cover a single thing between them. Clint replied quickly, drawing his hand to his forehead before removing it in the shape of the letter 'y'. Why was exactly what Clint wanted to know.

Phil's brows furrowed together and he opened his mouth like he was going to speak before slowly closing it again. He shifted his weight uncertainly between his feet. "Orders," he signed stiffly. "And you had already started to move on. I didn't want to come back and-and wreck everything."

"Then why come back now?" Clint signed back angrily.

"Natasha and Steve released our records. I didn't –there was no way you wouldn't have known, I didn't think. And I wanted you to know," Phil signed earnestly, his movements a little sluggish. He brought his closed fist back to his chest, forming the letter 's' and not 'a' as he rubbed a large circle around his chest. "I'm so sorry," he signed.

Clint flipped him off. "You left me! You didn't even just –it would have been one thing if you were dead but you weren't! You could have come whenever you wanted but you chose not to," he gesticulated furiously, his signs abrupt and quick, barely hiding his quivering hands. "You didn't choose to come to me."

Phil winced. "I've wanted to tell you from the beginning," Phil signed. "Since I woke up. But Fury…" Phil appeared to sigh, shrinking in on himself just a little. "He wanted the Avengers together; you're important to global security. So much bigger than my wants. And I'd been 'dead' to you for nearly six months by the time I had enough freedom to find you."

Clint paused, calculating. "I was in Italy then."

"The hospital, actually," Phil corrected.

Clint started. "You – you came to see me," he signed. It wasn't a question.

Phil gave a tentative nod and uncertain smile. Clint shook his head. No, it didn't make sense. It couldn't be true.

"I was – no –if you were there why didn't you tell me?" Clint winced at his choice of wording. "Why didn't you let me know?"

Phil paused. "There was nothing I wanted to do more than let you know. Fury was down the hall. I planned to do something."

Clint sneered. "Just didn't have enough time?" he asked, finding cruel pleasure in the way his voice made Phil jump.

"No," Phil signed patiently. "I thought you were better off without me."

Clint snorted. "Me –better without you?" he signed flippantly. "Don't you mean that you were better off without me, saving the world without some handicapped archer slowing you down?"

Phil's eyes flashed. "Don't call yourself that!" he protested, clumsily signing the words out when he realized he had spoken aloud. "It had nothing to do with that. I needed you more than I ever realized. But you –Clint you've been doing amazing."

Clint stared at Phil, baffled.

"You grew potatoes," Phil signed. "Or so I heard. You have a farm, a life apart from S.H.I.E.L.D. You had a plan, a home." Phil paused, shuffling his feet a little. "I didn't… I still don't know if there would be room for me here. You were healing. You made friends with Bruce and your neighbour and Fury and Natasha were the only ones who knew about this place."

"Obviously you did too," Clint signed slowly. "Why didn't you… come earlier?"

"Because I love you," Phil signed. "For as long as I've known you, you lived your life through S.H.I.E.L.D. Not entirely of your own free will. Clint, you never had the chances that I had, that most people get a chance at in life. To find them, make peace with… with everything. You just kept walking on and fighting because it was the right thing to do, even when it wasn't. You took the time and made something of your life and I am so proud of you."

"I didn't do it for you," Clint signed jerkily, glaring at Phil.

"I know," he signed, smiling with a hesitant gentleness. "But I was worried that if I came back… you would either leave S.H.I.E.L.D entirely or this new life of yours behind." Phil paused then, looking around, carefully keeping away from Clint. They knew each other too well, even despite the dead-not-actually-dead revelation apparently. Clint needed space. He needed to process. "I can never take back the six months where I was dead to you, which I had no control over. I thought it would be better to give you time."

"I can choose for myself, Phil!" Clint snarled, the signs tumbling from his hands. "I can make those choices. On my own, without you."

Phil turned back to him slowly. "I didn't mean to take that away from you," he signed.

"Just because I found something to pass the time with, doesn't mean I didn't want you," Clint signed angrily, fumbling over the movements as his hands trembled. "I wanted you more than anything else."

"I want you too," Phil signed. "Do you still want me?"

"Do I –?" Clint stuttered, staring at Phil in disbelief. Clint unfolded his arms, walking over to Phil slowly. "Do I want you?" Clint repeated softly, watching the way Phil tensed up. He set his hands on Phil's gently, tugging him closer before bringing their lips together. "I'll always want you," Clint signed against Phil's hand.

It was a sweet, tender kiss. Both of them oddly hesitant and uncertain in terms of what they wanted. Clint felt himself melting into the embrace as Phil's arms wrapped around him, at the warm weight of Phil pressed against him, the familiarity of it after so long. Part of him felt like crying. _Phil was back_. And he wasn't sure he knew how to cope with it, but at the same time he never wanted to let go again.

But it wasn't a miracle kiss, Clint knew, as he pulled back reluctantly from Phil. Things between the two of them were far from being fixed. He still needed to understand and figure out what was going on and what he was going to do with the information. But, and Clint smiled at Phil helplessly as he realized it. There was time for that later. Right now? Clint just wanted to know Phil was really here. He needed _more_.

Clint pressed more firmly against Phil, kissing him desperately, a brief nip of teeth. Clint slotted their hips together, his hand cupping at the base of Phil's neck as he explored his mouth. His free hand slid down to Phil's waist, edging around to pull Phil more solidly against him. Clint swallowed Phil's groan down, rucking his shirt up as Phil slid Clint's shirt up. He pulled back long enough to let Phil tug his shirt off before Clint set to unbuttoning Phil's shirt.

"No suit today?" he asked, hoping it was the murmur he intended, as he undid the buttons with practiced ease.

"Not here for official business," Phil replied. "Just here for you."

Clint shuddered as Phil's calloused hands caressed his back. "Missed you," Clint muttered needlessly, sliding Phil's shirt off. How had he not noticed earlier that Phil was actually dressed casually? Just a white button-up shirt and slacks. It wasn't one of his business suits; it was comfort wear. At least for Phil. Clint hid a smile against Phil's neck, pressing a light kiss there. It was a relief Phil had worn something familiar, hadn't tried to blend into the environment by wearing flannel with plaid and jeans.

Phil's hold tightened around him briefly. "Missed you too," he signed.

Clint shivered, glancing at Phil's mouth shamelessly. Phil smiled, pulling Clint back in for another breath-taking kiss. With their chests bare and pressed together, Clint could feel the rougher edges of the scar from where – he could feel Phil breathing, the warmth of his familiar body height pressed against Clint. It had been far too long. Clint pulled back from him reluctantly, hesitantly signing "bedroom?" watching Phil nervously. It wouldn't fix everything, or anything, really.

Phil hesitated for a second before he nodded, a warm smile spreading across his features. He took Clint's hand in his, guiding it to his lips before placing a sweet kiss on the back of his hand. No, it wouldn't fix anything. But Clint could feel the own jagged edges of the pain from losing Phil flare up. He needed to know Phil was alive, needed to forget everything between them. Clint wanted all of Phil, uninterrupted and singularly his while he could have him. For one more night, one more day, whatever time he could get. He needed it. He wasn't going to let Phil go again, but he wasn't sure if he could propose either. He needed time.

He needed to not think. Clint led Phil up the small stairs and into the master bedroom. Phil paused for a minute at the doorway, his eyes taking in the chaotic mess that was Clint. The laundry –dirty and clean –strewn haphazardly around. Phil inhaled, his shoulders rising as he seemed on the verge of rehashing an old argument of theirs before he abruptly released that same tension and turned to Clint, kissing him passionately. They made their way to the bed slowly, kicking aside any obstacle that proved troublesome as they exchanged hot, lazy kisses, hands at each other's waists as they worked their belts free and pants down.

Clint pressed Phil against the bed, flashing him a grin of triumph as he slid Phil's slacks from him, neatly setting them aside. His socks following seconds later, Clint's hands settling on Phil's calves, gliding along Phil's body as Clint moved over him. Phil kissed him hotly, hooking a leg around Clint's waist before using it as leverage to reverse their positions. Clint let out a breathy chuckle, grinning up at Phil smugly. Phil's scar was nothing new except for all the ways it was new, but Phil had as many as Clint did. They were battle wounds, proof of survival and there was nothing that could diminish the moment. If things between them were normal, Clint would have been teasing him about his need for control. But he found that he didn't mind the time and care Phil put into sliding his pajama pants down, leaving a trail of warm kisses down his thigh and calf as Phil eased his bottoms off.

And then, satisfied, Phil was moving back over him. He only offered a fond grin that said he had been expecting Clint to repeat the favor when Clint pinned him to the bed, kissing him longingly. Beneath their tender, lingering touches and reluctance to part, was a hurried urgency palpable only in the moments they weren't connected. When they parted for breath, pupils blown wide as they gazed at one another before one or both of them had their hands caressing the other as they searched to make sure they were both safe. Phil's hands kept going to Clint's shoulders, his calloused fingers hesitantly touching along his neck, jaw and ears. Clint would find that his hand always seemed to gravitate the new scar Phil was sporting, settling just over it where he could feel Phil's heart beating steadily.

And then they were dragging each other back into kisses, grinding against each other as they made out like lovesick teenagers. Somewhere between one breathy gasp and the next, Clint had finally removed Phil's last article of clothing. The lube and condoms he kept untouched in his nightstand drawer were suddenly on the bed, Phil's lust blown eyes following his every movement as Clint worked himself open. It had been too long since Clint last did anything for himself –there was either never enough time, or it always felt like he was missing something. Someone. Phil offered a soothing, reassuring touch as he glanced at Clint for permission before taking over.

Clint knew he must have made an embarrassing sound, going by the breathy chuckle he felt Phil give but he couldn't tell. It was too much and too good all at once. He was ready to fall apart under Phil's touch, but all too-soon and not soon enough, Phil was rolling the condom onto himself before bringing them together. Neither of them were able to last long, but Clint let his hand rest over Phil's heart even as they moved together, erratic and unsteady before they were rushing into ecstasy entirely too soon. It wasn't disappointing, even as they tidied up what they could without having to leave the bed. Phil tried –Clint just gave him a sleepy smile that begged him to stay. Phil listened.

It felt like a dream, the bubble of euphoria glowing around them as Clint allowed Phil to gently wrap him up in his arms. They didn't usually spoon like this, but Clint couldn't resist being so close to Phil. He let his partner wrap him up, his hand settling across his stomach easily. He could feel Phil breathing slow and easy, relaxed, peaceful behind him. For the first time in a long while, Clint made the conscious decision to fight against the sleepiness and exhausted that grabbed at him. He turned carefully, keeping an eye on Phil protectively. It wasn't normal for either of them to fall into bed and fall asleep. But if Clint was willing to admit it, he was just scared that he would wake up and Phil would be gone. On the list Clint occasionally thought about, of worst things to happen, that one definitely topped the list.

Clint made the sign, clumsy and with a shaking hand as he spelled the 'I' 'l' and 'u', his hand hovering over his heart before gently placing it over Phil's chest. Somehow, of everything today, it hurt the most.


	9. Love

Love

Clint woke up slowly, blinking groggily. There was sunlight filtering in through the thin curtain, spread across the empty side of the bed, warming Clint's bare arm. He frowned at his hand, reaching over to touch the side of the bed. It was empty and cold. He jerked upright, ignoring the pleasant burn of his muscles protesting the abrupt movement, as he scanned the room. Not a thing was out of place. But he –there was no way he could have imagined last night. Not a chance. He could still feel the familiar, welcome aches of having thoroughly enjoyed last night. There was no way he had imagined last night. It couldn't be possible.

Clint got out of bed slowly, pulling a pair of discarded sweat pants on before making his way downstairs. Phil had to be there. Because if he wasn't, Clint… didn't even know what he would do. Lock himself up here and never leave again, maybe. He didn't want to be a risk out in the field. He hesitated on the last step, peering into the kitchen reluctantly. He could see Lucky sitting there, his stubby tail wagging furiously as a hand came into view, feeing him a piece of bacon.

Clint felt all the air in his chest expel in a gust of relief as he moved into the kitchen, smiling at Phil in weak relief. Phil paused, smiling at him as he gave him a once over. Clint reached down, petting Lucky.

"What's his name?" Phil signed.

"Lucky," Clint finger spelled with a grin.

Phil smiled amusedly. "You know, I think he looks more like a Fury, personally."

"Don't even," Clint signed, laughing. "I like my everything where it is. I swear the man would crawl out of his grave and strangle me if I had named him that."

"Well for one that would be impressive, but Fury isn't dead Clint."

Clint blinked. "Of course he isn't," Clint signed. He wasn't sure whether to be bitter about the fact that he had been lied to again or to be relieved that the guy was still alive. "No one around here can stay dead."

Phil flinched. "Yes, well… I, ah, made breakfast. I was going to bring it to you."

Clint exhaled slowly, sitting down at the table. "Thanks," he signed, avoiding Phil's gaze.

Peripherally, Clint observed as Phil hesitated a moment before he brought two plates over. He set one in front of Clint before Phil sat down on the opposite side of the table. "Fury faked his death, he helped Steve and Natasha take down Pierce," he explained. "You know he was leading Hydra?"

Clint froze, fork halfway to his mouth. "No," he shook his head in lieu of a free hand. He took a long drain from his coffee.

Phil grimaced. "Garrett and Sitwell too," he signed. "They took Pierce down and Fury came to help… my team, and I. We were in a bit of a predicament with Garrett. He's dead, now. And Fury is underground hunting Hydra. He…" Phil paused at this part, drawing back to himself, straightening his posture. "I'm the new Director of S.H.I.E.L.D –or of what remains of it."

Clint paused, eyeing him warily. "Did you come here for me or for Hawkeye?" he signed.

Phil's eyes widened. "No, no," he said, halfway to reaching for Clint before he stopped himself. "I came here for you. Just you, not Hawkeye, not Agent Barton," he signed.

Clint relaxed slowly, picking at the omelet on his plate absently. "So…"

"Steve and Natasha are looking for the Winter Soldier. Turns out he's really Bucky Barnes, Steve's best friend."

"No way," Clint interjected, signing quickly.

Phil smiled wryly. "Natasha showed me the file. It's really him." Huh. Clint took a bite of his omelet, gesturing for Phil to continue. "Fury is underground tacking Hydra, Tony is handling the publicity for the Avengers, Bruce is keeping hidden and you were just... gone."

Clint hesitated. "How did you find me?"

"Fury told me to look into you, make sure you hadn't been caught. He found your trackers; he wasn't sure if they were from you or if they had been left as a message. I asked a friend to look for you." Phil paused, twisting his fork in his hand, shredding his omelet before he appeared to sigh and set his fork back down restlessly. "There was no record of Clint Barton after you quit S.H.I.E.L.D."

"I was thorough," Clint replied smugly.

Phil smiled at him wryly. "I found Flint Martin though." Clint breathed in sharply, feeling the heat of embarrassment crawl up his neck. "You don't have to explain it to me," Phil signed gently.

Clint ducked his head, staring down into his coffee cup. "It was just after New York," he signed. "You probably already knew that. I was… I missed you, I missed you so much," Clint explained, glancing at Phil. "I just wanted –the apartment was crushed under a leviathan. There was nothing, I had nothing of you. Not your body, your ashes, your name, your –I had nothing."

Phil was watching him intently, something like guilt apparent across his face. "I'm sorry," he signed emphatically, his hand in the shape of the letter's' again.

"You couldn't have done anything." Clint waved it off. "You didn't know. Sitwell nearly got me fired, reported me as AWOL and Natasha came hunting me down. Dragged me back to S.H.I.E.L.D and I started working."

"Fury let me pick out a team," Phil signed. "I couldn't choose any of the Avengers and he kept us busy."

Clint frowned sadly. "I don't know how to," he gestured vaguely, trying to find a word that could encompass how he was feeling. There wasn't really a word that worked. He wasn't sure whether he could forgive Phil or not.

"It's up to you," Phil signed. "If you want me to stay or to go, I'll respect your wishes."

Clint took a bite of the omelet. It was good, familiar. "You're the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D now. You can't stay here forever."

Phil frowned. "I could run operations from here, through the phone or video conferencing," he disagreed. "I've already put my job before you too often. You mean more to me, Clint. Losing S.H.I.E.L.D hurt, but it's… there are capable people who could take over just as easily. Maria, for instance. I can't lose you again."

Clint paused, watching Phil. Everything about him was serious and earnest. For all the years they had known each other, Phil had put his job first. They both did. There were a lot of things bigger than them in the world. World security, peace, lives. They were just two guys.

"You can't do that," Clint argued.

"I can," Phil signed, smiling at Clint apologetically. "I've lost a lot of relationships over the years because of my work. You've understood. And I want –no, I need to prove to you, Clint. I want to prove to you that you mean as much to me. Because you're an important part of my life."

"I'll never ask you to do that," Clint signed vehemently.

"S.H.I.E.L.D means a lot to me," Phil replied. "But I can be an agent just as effectively. I don't have to be the director."

"No one would be better at it than you," Clint argued. "I won't ask you to do that –don't do it for me. I'm not." _I'm not that important_, he wanted to say. "There are agents out there who still need you. And no matter what you say, S.H.I.E.L.D is your life. _I_ know that. I don't want you to give up who you are for me."

Phil nodded slowly. "I'm sorry," he signed. "I just. I died, Clint. A lot of my priorities have changed. I don't want to live with regrets."

"I don't want you to change yourself because you think it's what I need," Clint scowled. "It's not romantic. I love you for who you are. I always have."

The silence was unnerving, Clint realized for the first time. He could hear nothing, but across from him Phil appeared startled. He wasn't moving. There was the silence in what Clint could hear and a louder, more pressing silence in the lack of responsiveness from Phil. In his stillness. Clint didn't know what to do with it or what to do with his confession. If he could have, he would have pulled the words back in and swallowed them down. Even when they were together, it wasn't something they shared with one another often. It was enough to express it through their actions –they hadn't verbalized it very often. And things had changed. Maybe Phil's feelings had changed. The anxiety clawed at his gut.

Phil waved his hand and Clint startled up to see Phil was smiling goofily. "I love you," he said, signing the words clumsily. It was a little different than the sign Clint had used last night, with Phil pressing his hands to his chest. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

Clint ducked his head, uncomfortable with the weight of Phil's words. He glanced up when Phil set his hand over his own.

"What do you want, Clint?" he asked, his blue eyes gentle.

"I don't know," Clint replied helplessly, shrugging his shoulders as he pulled back from Phil. "I just. You were dead. And now you're not. And Hydra was S.H.I.E.L.D and Fury's alive…" He paused, tapping at his wrist and gesturing around him vaguely. He needed time.

Phil smiled apologetically and drew back, nodding understandingly. "Do you want me to be here?" he asked, the lines around his eyes and brows pinching together with worry.

Clint opened his mouth, closing it slowly. He shrugged. "I want you here, but I…" he glanced at Phil imploringly, "but I don't. I need you but I don't know how to-to cope with all this," he explained clumsily.

He wanted nothing more than for Phil to hold him, for them to be tangled together. But there were only so many mistakes Clint was willing to make. And it was Phil. Phil would understand. Clint glanced at him and sure enough, there was sweet understanding in his eyes. Like he had been expecting that was the answer Clint would give. Maybe it was just that obvious after having spent a year and a half thinking Phil was dead.

Clint still loved him. But he needed some time. "Stay for the rest of the week," he signed impulsively.

Phil smiled softly. "As long as you want me to," he replied, hesitating before placing a light peck on Clint's cheek.

Clint flushed and rolled his eyes. "I want you for the week," he said, stumbling over the words. Part of him wanted to say _I want you forever_ but that wasn't a promise he could make, right yet. He wasn't sure if it was still true. He could barely tell what –if anything –was different between him and Phil. And it seemed like everything had to be different given the time that had passed, that he had lost his hearing and Phil… "When did you learn to sign, anyways?" he asked, changing the topic abruptly.

Phil blinked and turned faintly pink. "I. When I went to see you and realized… I started to learn."

Clint blinked in surprise. "Why?" he signed.

Phil turned a brighter shade of pink. "I knew I would be coming to see you, that I would see you again. And I wanted to be prepared. Just in case."

"Bruce taught me," Clint signed, staring at Phil. "I'm not the best." He relied too much on finger-spelling out words, and it was time consuming but it worked.

"I can help," Phil signed.

It was easier for Clint to recognize what the signs meant than it was for him to mimic them back. Bruce had been working on him with it, until Clint got fed up and started avoiding him. Bruce seemed to patiently understand it and he let it slide. Phil probably wouldn't. But it would be easier to learn, because Clint had gotten over the denial. His hearing aids made it easier but in case he ever lost his hearing aids again, having sign language was the only answer. He could never tell how loud or quiet he was speaking without them, although he knew what he was saying. He tried to be mindful of that but it was impossible.

It was a long week, really. But it didn't feel like it. It felt more like a vacation. Phil was everywhere. Phil was _here_, right next to Clint. And while he hadn't decided what he was going to do, whether he would go to Tony or follow Phil back to S.H.I.E.L.D, he didn't care. Because for one week, everything was perfectly normal. At most, he and Phil had been able to spend a weekend together. But they had never really had time to move in –they tried, but there were always boxes and boxes to unpack.

Phil fit into his new life as easily as he had ever slipped into Clint's old one. The best thing about Phil's visit was definitely the fact that not two days later, Clint received a box of mail addressed to him from Tony Stark. Inside were two sets of hearing aids; on one set a sticky note was plastered and it read "back ups! ~from your hubby." He swore he could hear Tony's laughter. Phil looked into the box when Clint set it down as he put on his hearing aids. They were smaller and fit better than his old ones.

"Hubby?" Phil signed, looking at Clint. "Are you keeping secrets now?" he signed, the amused tilt to his lips betraying his fondness.

"Tony," Clint answered, relieved and a little overwhelmed by being able to hear again. "Someone asked him if he knew where Bruce or I were and he flashed his wedding ring." Clint smirked wryly, turning his hand so Phil could see the lack of a ring. "Bruce's the only one insane enough to marry him."

Phil rolled his eyes. "They're a good match for each other."

"They seem to make each other happy," Clint said, instead. He took a breath, checking Phil over. "It's… good to hear you, Phil," he offered quietly.

Phil smiled tenderly. "I love you," he stated. "And I'm sorry for –"

Clint pressed their lips together, cutting Phil off. He didn't need any more apologies. He really didn't. He just needed Phil, however he could have him. Phil kissed him back gently but Clint wasn't having any of that. He wanted more. He only had a few days left with Phil before he would be leaving. He deepened the kiss, pressing against him hopefully. Phil caught on as quickly as he did everything and with a few breathy chuckles and outright laughs, they tumbled onto the couch, tangled up in each other.

It was a week of bliss, thankfully free from interruptions. Clint did take the time to phone the number Natasha had left and he left her a voicemail, assuring her he was alive and well. He considered mentioning Phil but he knew that was a conversation that was best to take place with her present. They would have a lot to cover. For the duration of Phil's visit, she didn't phone.

Even though it was just a week, it was too easy for both of them to fall back into their old habits. Clint spent more time thinking about the ring he had lost so long ago. He wanted to give it to Phil; he wanted Phil to be his on paper. Two dead men. He smiled to himself, absently tracing the rough scar along Phil's chest while his lover slept. Whatever happened, he didn't want to have to spend the rest of his life regretting it. Every day they both walked into dangerous situations. With Hydra out, crawling around, ready and waiting to strike…

_Really_, he thought to himself, _why am I waiting?_ Because he didn't want to make a hasty decision. He didn't want to end up regretting his marriage. He was pretty sure he could never regret Phil though. Clint sat up slowly, smiling down at his partner. He wasn't his father or his brother –there was no way he would end up like them. But a little time wouldn't hurt to make sure either. He could think up a romantic plan, this time. Something better than an Italian restaurant and a simple speech, maybe? He hadn't wasted time nearly two years ago in deciding on how to prove his commitment to Phil –a promissory ring. Well, this time, if he went through with it, it was definitely going to have to be an engagement ring.

Phil never asked about Clint's plans at the restaurant. As the week came to an end, they spent more and more time huddled in bed together. Just leaving to grab food was almost too much, and neither of them could bear to let go of the other. It was ridiculous. And it left Clint remembering all those cheesy romance movies he had sat through with Phil. They were both all too aware that they didn't know when they could or if they would see each other again. Life had been too unpredictable lately and both of them were far too aware of that fact. They spent the remaining hours in bed, not quite talking as they gazed at one another, hands roaming over their partner's body. Clint took his time relearning Phil's body, memorizing what it felt like to have Phil fall apart under him. He was sure that Phil was spending their last hours together doing much the same. Their kisses got more desperate and needy the closer the hours ticked down.

"I love you," Phil reminded him, smiling tenderly.

"And you'll spend every minute wishing you were back here," Clint teased. "Lucky's going to be just miserable without you. Stark's going to be emotionally stunted and Banner'll be lonely without either of you. Don't forget poor Steven or –"

"I still can't believe you named your horse after Bucky Barnes," Phil muttered under his breath, doing up the buttons on his shirt.

"Aren't you proud of me?" he laughed. "I did it for you, sir."

Phil chuckled. "It's a little different now, Clint. But I do admit there is symmetry between the two and Captain America and Sergeant Barnes." He reached for his tie. "I still think you should have named Lucky, Fury. You don't have the whole set of Avengers."

"I wouldn't want Thor to get jealous," Clint replied flippantly. "Bruce said that Tony bought a pure bred cow or something and is having her shipped here because –and I quote – "'What kind of farmer doesn't have a cow?'"

Phil shook his head, his lips twitching towards a smile. "Just think what they'll do when they realize you've named all your animals after them."

"You always used to say that if the Avengers ever worked out, we'd be a total zoo," Clint said easily. "Now we are."

"Just don't start adding lions and tigers. I don't think Steven could take it."

"You kidding? Stark would have a conniption. And don't forget poor Banner, he wouldn't be able to deal with big dangerous cats around. He'd have a heart attack, trying to keep Stark safe."

Phil chuckled and pressed a quick kiss to Clint's forehead. "At least I'll know you're being looked after," he said, smiling fondly.

"Other way around," he protested. "I'm the farmer, here."

Phil snorted a brief amused exhalation of air. "If you say so."

The silence stretched out between them, heavy and thick, until Clint hopped off his bed and pressed up against Phil, kissing him hotly. As fast as they escalated from a brief kiss into making out, Phil pulled away.

"I have to go," he panted, his hair mussed and tie askew. "I really, really have to go before they send someone after me."

"They can wait," Clint pleaded, pressing up against Phil, shuddering. "They've had you for two years. Gimme a few more hours."

Phil laughed breathily but it came out as a groan instead. Clint didn't waste a minute, divesting him of his clothes eagerly. Whatever his protests earlier, Phil didn't mind and was all too pleased to return the favor a few short hours later. However, as much as neither of them wanted to leave, they both knew that it couldn't last forever. Phil apologized and they spent the night wrapped in each other's arms. If it was physically possible for either of them, there would have been more orgasms but they were both too tired for it. And the physical closeness of their bodies was as good as it was going to get. But when morning came, despite Clint's best efforts, Phil still left.

"You need time to think," Phil said, reluctantly, squeezing Clint's hand. "You have my number. Call me when you're ready, okay?" Clint nodded and watched as his partner drove away, back to the remains of S.H.I.E.L.D to fight the good fight.

Not two days later while Clint was figuring out what to do about Phil, the cow from Tony arrived. He dubbed it Thunder God in honor of Thor. It seemed only right, given the way the cow ambled around, ignoring everyone. Even Stark when she tried to boss Thunder God around, the cow wasn't having any of it. It was refreshing, really.

Naturally, the day after that, Natasha showed up with the world's most wanted assassin trailing behind her.


	10. Best Day of My Life

Best Day of My Life

"Nat?" he asked, blinking.

"This is… James," she said, stepping aside to indicate the Winter Soldier. "He's an acquaintance." She gave Clint a hard look.

"I can see that," he answered, glancing at the assassin.

The Winter Soldier appeared quite exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, his posture was stooped and his hands kept twitching. His hair, nearly shoulder length, was greasy and unkempt, knotted together.

"He needs a place to stay," she said. "Where no one will look for him," she said again, emphasizing the latter.

"Of course, he's welcome to," Clint said, only a little wary. "There's a guest bedroom downstairs that he's welcome to use."

If everyone wanted to come hide away at Barton Ranch, he was going to need to hire some people to build an addition onto the house so that everyone could have a room to themselves. He didn't really have the money but he also didn't really _not_ have the money. Maybe he should start charging rent, or something.

"Thank you," Natasha said, walking inside, Barnes trailing after her on autopilot.

Not twenty minutes after that, Natasha walked back outside and over to him. "He's showered and sleeping," she said with a sigh as she perched on the fence next to him.

"So, wanna tell me what's up?" he asked casually as he pitched another forkful of hay over the fence.

"He was brainwashed," she stated. "He gets flashbacks sometimes. Sometimes he's Bucky, other times he's James…"

Ah, _the_ James. That explained a lot. "And sometimes he's the Winter Soldier?" he asked, glancing at her.

Natasha nodded. "Steve… Steve has good intentions, I think. But he's not going to be able to help James. Steve can't understand."

Clint nodded jerkily. "Not the way that either you or I can, right?" He sighed.

"I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important, if there wasn't somewhere else I could take him but –"

"It's alright Nat," he said. "I told you, he can stay. I won't breathe a word about him to Captain America."

Natasha nodded, her legs swinging. Clint shoved the pitchfork into the loose soil. She stretched a foot out, kicking the back of his shoulder to get his attention. "I'm glad you're alright."

"Sorry it took me so long to reply," Clint said with a grimace. "My 'aids had trackers in them. Stark sent me some replacements."

"What a good husband he is," she teased.

"That is low," Clint whined, burying his head into his hands with a laugh. "I did not marry that lunatic."

She scanned him over. "You're looking… better."

Clint flashed a wry grin. "Yeah well, we have a lot to catch up on."

Natasha arched an eyebrow.

"For starters, Phil's alive. He came. He saw me."

"What."

So Clint spent the next twenty minutes telling her everything he knew. It wasn't the full story, he knew. But he didn't really want to know the details, either. He would, when Phil was ready and Clint was ready to ask. But it… things were fragile right now. He didn't care so much to go poking for holes in his story. In the days since Phil had let, Clint had given it some thought. Phil had been honest about everything Clint asked and he hadn't ever asked about the details of Phil's survival. And Phil hadn't offered them either, so whatever it was, it was big. About as big as Natasha running into her ex-lover from Russia, the guy who gave her the final push to get out of the organization and who had practically sacrificed himself.

Knowing that James was really Bucky, it made a lot more sense. The guy had died –nearly, apparently, nearly died for Steve. Of course he would sacrifice himself for Natasha. (Not that he was complaining, but eventually the bad guys were going to stop this dying business and start crawling out of their graves with this sort of good-luck revival rate.)

"I see," Natasha said tightly, leaning back against the fence. "I'll have a talk with him. And Fury too."

Clint smiled. "It's good to have you back," he said, handing her a beer. Natasha arched a brow at that, clearly expressing her distaste for the drink. "Only thing I've got around here," Clint said.

Natasha sighed heavily. "Only when Phil's around, I swear," she said, twisting the cap off. "You do know he likes wine better, right?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "Yes I know. Just like I know you hate my crappy beer." Natasha hummed noncommittally and took a drink of the beer, grimacing at the taste. "So how long are you staying?"

She tapped her fingers against the neck of her beer bottle. "I can't stay very long. They're looking for me, and Steve's still trying to find his best friend. I have to start leaving a trail for him."

Clint nodded thoughtfully. "I can send you texts; let you know how he's doing?"

Natasha shook her head. "No it's not… I don't need them."

Clint glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Nat?" he asked. He knew how much James had meant to her, once upon a time. Considering she had brought him here, he knew how much he still meant to her.

"I have red in my ledger," Natasha murmured quietly. "This is my debt repaid to him."

And Steve, no doubt. Whatever had happened between them. Clint nodded respectfully. "If that's what you want."

Natasha brushed their knees together. "I'll stay today and then tomorrow I'll go track Coulson down."

"Is he gonna stay here without you?" Clint asked, taking a long swig from his own bottle.

"I think so," she said. "He wants to learn who he was and find out who he is." She paused, eyes twinkling, "I hear farms help with this sort of thing."

Clint laughed and elbowed her good-naturedly. "Yeah, yeah."

Clint made an elaborate dinner with the leftovers he had lying around. Natasha took the dish into Barnes' room before returning to eat with Clint. The next morning, when he got up, she was long gone. Barnes still remained though. He was standing in the kitchen, staring at the bowl he had started washing out. It reminded Clint of the pictures he'd been given during a workshop during his first few years at S.H.I.E.L.D depicting the thousand yard stare. Barnes definitely had that.

Clint made an effort to make noise as he walked down the stairs, his pant legs rustling against each other, the stairs creaking under his weight as he intentionally walked where he knew they would groan and strain. He saw Barnes startle, fumbling with the dish and spraying water everywhere before he mechanically scrubbed the dish clean and stepped aside.

"Morning," Clint said. "Natasha's left already. You want anything to eat?"

Barnes stared at him for a moment and it was unnerving with his deadened eyes. After what felt like an eternity, Barnes shrugged.

"Cereal?" Clint asked as he walked slowly past Barnes. He knew better than to make sudden or abrupt movements around the guy. "I've got a few different kinds," he said, taking out a couple of boxes and setting them in front of Barnes.

Barnes didn't react immediately. But Clint had no problem waiting as he turned on the coffee pot, got out two bowls and two spoons, setting the table absently. He was surprised by the amount of effort it took to make noise as he moved around. But he made sure to give Barnes time and space to make his decision.

Seventy years without free will. That was going to take a lot of time to adjust to and Clint was in no hurry to rush him. Barnes jerkily moved, grabbing the chocolate and marshmallow cereal, dumping it into his bowl before splashing the milk into the bowl. He skittered back away, halfway to the guest bedroom before he stopped and looked at Clint.

_Someone with an actual psychology degree needs to be here for this_, Clint thought to himself. "Eat wherever you want," Clint said, shrugging as he poured some Lucky Charms into his own bowl, making a conscious effort to not watch Barnes.

The man didn't need anyone watching him –he needed privacy and some space in his own head. When Clint glanced up next, a spoonful of sugary cereal in his mouth, Barnes was nowhere to be seen. This happened at every meal. Clint didn't take offense. Lucky made a pretty decent dinner partner, even if he did slobber. Tasha took a liking to Barnes and spent most of her time following him around. It was kind of funny actually. Clint snapped a few pictures and sent them on to Natasha. It got easier to figure out where Barnes was the more time that passed, as he would lock Tasha out of the room. And without fail she would sit down in front of the door and meow for an hour or two. Sometimes all night.

Clint was grateful he could just turn his hearing aids off. In the first few weeks, he and Barnes didn't interact much. He mostly saw Barnes around, Tasha trailing after him. Or on occasion, he saw him standing out in the field with Steven. Buchanan always seemed to give them space, wandering off to stand with Thunder God and the hens. Clint left them to it.

"My turn," Barnes grunted one morning, eyeing Clint suspiciously as he stood bare footed at the stove, a bowl of what looked like pancake batter under his arm.

Clint shrugged. "If you want," he said, easily, sitting down at the table like he hadn't been planning on cooking again. If Barnes wanted to cook, he could cook to his heart's content. Hopefully he wouldn't burn anything.

Barnes flashed him a faint smile. "No wonder Natalia likes you. You must let her walk over you."

"I don't let her do anything," Clint disagreed, picking at a loose thread on his shirt.

"Of course," Barnes amended, fumbling over the words. "No one can control a spider, I only meant…" He huffed, frustrated. "She likes control," he finally settled on saying.

"She does what she wants," Clint said, smiling at Barnes.

Barnes didn't say much after that, as he turned his focus back to mixing the batter up before making pancakes. It was a strained sort of tense silence. _Is this what I was like?_ Clint wondered. After everything with The Bastard, had he shut down this hard? Natasha wasn't there and those early months had passed in a blur of grief and loss.

"Figured out why she brought you here?" Clint asked, hoping to get more than a one word answer out of Barnes. Prior to today, Barnes had never initiated a conversation or given more than a one word answer.

"Because you have a farm," he answered, gesturing briefly with his arm. "And no one will find me here. What kind of assassin lives on a farm?" he huffed.

"I do," Clint answered casually.

Barnes glanced at him, his green eyes focused on him. "You're an assassin?" he asked, disbelief heavy in his tone.

"I was," Clint replied casually, taking note of Barnes' open posture. "I'm not anymore. I am the world's greatest marksmen though."

Barnes scoffed at that, rolling his eyes as he turned back to his batter. "I'm sure," he drawled, a hint of a Brooklyn drawl slipping into his voice.

"I'll bet you breakfast for the next week that I'm a better shot than you are," Clint stated.

"You've already been making breakfast that long," Barnes pointed out. "Hardly fair if you lose."

"Fine. A week of breakfasts plus… loser gets his head shaved."

"How is that even a fair bet?" Bucky asked, shaking his head.

"Oh come on," Clint goaded. "You that scared of losing –of getting a haircut?"

Bucky scoffed again, and it was definitely Bucky. His posture wasn't so closed off, his fingers weren't twitching like he was trying to locate the nearest weapon and he had his back to Clint. Definitely Bucky. "You wish Barton," he replied. "You're on but don't say I told you so when I blow your scores out of the water. Greatest marksman my ass."

Clearly, someone had never told him who Hawkeye was. Clint grinned, "You're so on."

After breakfast, Clint went upstairs and brought down the two rifles he kept securely stored. He handed one to Barnes, leading him out to the empty barn where he had some targets set up.

"You can take the first shot, even warm-up if you really want to," Clint drawled, leaning back against the barn doors. "Call it the guest advantage."

Bucky huffed and readied the rifle, checking it out thoroughly before he clicked the safety off, took aim and fired. He loaded and fired again and again and again in rapid succession. He was pretty good. Clint noted the way his rounds were all neatly centered around the target's heart. Clint took his own rifle, checked it over, loaded it, clicked the safety off and fired four shots in rapid succession. One hole, right where the target's head was and another directly over Barnes' shots. Four shots, two holes. He frowned a bit, looking at the hole on the chest again; one of his shots went a little wide. But then, he wasn't the best with guns.

"When do you wanna shave that shaggy mane of yours off?" Clint asked, turning to Barnes.

Bucky huffed. "You're a fuckin' con artist, man. That was cheap."

Clint laughed. "I told you I was the best marksman in the world."

"Just get it over with, shave it all off."

Clint set up an area outside where he could shave his head before he went back inside, grabbed his clippers and brought them out. Bucky eyed him distrustfully as he sat down on the stool, his hair hanging loosely around his shoulders. It was a bit awkward doing it for someone else as he started shaving, starting from Bucky's forehead and moving down to the back of his head. He hadn't made more than two or three passes when the clippers cut out.

"Why did you stop?"

"The clippers died," Clint said, staring at Bucky's hair.

"What."

"Oh well. Sweet mullet! My work here is done."

"That was not part of the deal, Barton," Bucky growled. "Give me the clippers. I am _not_ walking around looking like this."

Clint laughed, stepping back. "You don't even know what you look like! It's very 80's."

"I don't even want to know," Bucky said, getting to his feet. "Give me the clippers."

"Or what?"

"Don't make me hurt your chickens."

"Aw, not the chickens. I don't want Banner to start breathing fire. Just leave my chickens alone." Banner didn't need that kind of stress.

Bucky's face screwed up in confusion as he held out his hand. "Just give me the clippers, Barton, and no one has to get hurt."

Clint huffed and handed the clippers over. Bucky shook his head and he started the clippers up again easily, flashing Clint a look of disapproval before he finished shaving his hair off. He looked a lot more like the Sergeant James 'Bucky' Barnes people talked about. A lot more human. There was good humor dancing in his eyes even as he buzzed his hair off. Banner and Stark strutted over, clucking nervously as they watched Bucky brush the remains of his hair off his scalp.

Bucky started helping out more after that. He sort of followed Clint around, helping him feed the animals or chop wood when Clint went out to do the same. It was companionable silence between them most of the time. Bucky seemed to enjoy the work and even though Clint had woken up several times, hearing Bucky crying out in his sleep, they never talked about it. Clint wasn't sure how to even bring up the similar histories they shared, the brainwashing or the guilt that came along with it.

Bucky was the one who brought up the fact that if Clint got anymore guests coming out to stay, he was going to need more room to put them. So Clint searched the Internet for a nearby contractor and called him up.

"Y'know," Bucky drawled, leaning back against the wall. "I never really pictured you as much of a yellow guy."

Clint flipped him the bird without looking as he skimmed over the contractor's plans for the addition.

"Seriously, it's like canary yellow. I've seen those 'do it yourself' home repair shows, they called this shade canary yellow last night."

"If it bugs you so much then you can paint it," Clint snorted.

"No, no, it doesn't bug me. I just didn't think you were a _canary_ kind of a guy. Thought you were more of a Hawkguy, myself."

Clint laughed. "Oh fuck off, Barnes."

"I want a rematch," Bucky said. "If I lose, I'll paint your entire goddamn house purple. If I win, you have to get the contractor's to match this shade," he said, tapping a finger against the wall.

It wasn't the first time Bucky had tried to get him to do a rematch, but it was definitely the most creative he'd been about the challenge. Clint glanced at the frou-frou yellow wall with a grimace. "You're on."

Clint brought out the rifles, handing one to Bucky as they walked out to the barn where the new targets were set up. "Six shots, winner is whoever has the most points?" Bucky asked, glancing at him as he loaded his rifle.

"Yeah," Clint agreed, loading his gun.

Bucky flashed him a smug grin, turning to face his target as he took aim and fired. Six shots later, Clint was staring at Bucky's target reluctantly. One neat hole in the middle of the target's head. Not a single millimeter too wide from an askew bullet. That wasn't going to be easy to beat. Clint drew his rifle, aiming it at his own target before firing. The first three went straight through the target's head, but he felt the shift and knew the fourth had gone just a hair too far to the left as he finished his shots.

"Shit," Clint said, staring down at the targets.

Bucky smirked. "Hope you like yellow, Barton."

Clint took a picture of the targets and sent the file to Phil with a sad face emoji. He forwarded the same message to Natasha.

"Why did you challenge Barnes with guns… why guns…?" Phil replied.

"I won last time!" Clint texted back defensively.

"He's been adjusting well, you said. Of course he was going to win!"

"It's not like I have to shave my hair," Clint texted.

"What did you bet?" There wasn't even a question mark or tone, but Clint could sense Phil's concern.

"Well, the addition is gonna be… more yellow, than expected."

The look the contractor gave Clint when he asked him to match the same shade of yellow on the addition was priceless, if Bucky's laughter was anything to judge it by. While the contractors worked on adding an addition, Clint and Bucky kept themselves busy repairing the farm, learning how to grow vegetables and, at Kase's urging, how to ride horses. Clint didn't have a lot of money left, at the end of everything, but after having worked at S.H.I.E.L.D for fifteen years and storing the majority of his money under his Flint alias, his savings were definitely looking slim now. But the farm looked like a real farm. Bucky took to horse riding like a pro and Clint left him to explore the property and have time alone with his issues. Thankfully, Bucky never did ask about the names of the horses. Either he knew and that was why he hadn't asked or he just didn't want to know.

Every night since Phil had left, they called one another. It was during one of Bucky's horse riding trips that Clint got into his truck and drove into town, straight to the nearest jewelry shop. He bought a plain gold band and a Black Angus bull that a fellow farmer was selling for cheap. It was as mean as it looked. The farmer drove out to Clint's place and helped coral the bull into the pen with Thunder God and Buchanan. The bull snorted, dragging his hoof against the earth before meandering around its pen. Thunder God eyed him warily and waited until the bull had settled down before she approached. Neither Buchanan, Stark nor Banner wanted anything to do with the bull. Stark clucked from the other side of the fence at the Angus bull, Banner at her side, fluffing her feathers worriedly. Clint watched the bull carefully and made sure to give it a wide berth.

He could think of a few names that would have suited the bull, but none of them seemed as appropriate as the one name he refused to even think about. He sent Phil a picture before heading inside, up to his room when his phone vibrated with another message. From Tony, of all people.

"Party at my place, May twenty-first. Be there." Read the message.

It was months away, but Clint marked it down on his calendar while he remembered.


	11. Thinking Out Loud

Thinking Out Loud

Bucky left with little fanfare to go and explore the current world. He wanted to see New York for himself, to find out what changes had happened over the years for himself. Clint called Kase up and asked him to look after the farm for a week as he booked a flight to Portland and made a reservation at a classy restaurant Phil often mentioned. It had been his favorite date that the two of them had ever been on. The restaurant served fancy, expensive food and came with a ballroom open for couples to dance along. Professional instructors were there to help, if anyone wanted. Phil loved it.

Clint turned the slim box over in his head as he tapped Phil's name on his contact list. "Hey, so… I've got a week off. Let's hit up Portland?"

"A –Portland?" Phil asked.

"Yeah. Like a date. Just for a couple of days." Clint fidgeted.

"I can be there. Tomorrow?"

"I've got a room booked in the same hotel we used last time."

Phil chuckled softly. "Alright, I'll meet you there?"

"Great," Clint agreed enthusiastically.

Clint grabbed his carry-on bag and got onto the plane. A few short hours later, he was in the hotel where he would be proposing to Phil. The ballroom restaurant was down below. Clint wasn't even sure if it was going to be obvious to Phil what he was planning. More than that, they hadn't had much opportunity to discuss their relationship but Clint knew what he wanted to be doing. He had a unique skill set that he could use to help people –whether it was S.H.I.E.L.D or his neighbors. Or even friends of the Avengers. Piece of paper or not, Clint wasn't going to waste what little time he had left with Phil.

He transferred the ring from his jeans into his suit pocket as he changed out of his casual clothes and into a suit. He fastened the tie on easily, checking it over in the mirror. He didn't need Phil fussing over his imperfect skills –life was better the longer Clint could go without having to wear a suit and tie in the first place. He hated getting dressed up. But Phil always appreciated when he did and today was about them. Clint turned the box over in his pocket anxiously as he combed his hair into order.

What if Phil had changed his mind? It wasn't impossible. Phil was a busy man. Clint sighed heavily. This was ridiculous. He was going to sit through dinner and several dances with Phil before they could get back to their room and he could propose. At this rate, he would end up tripping over Phil's feet, breaking the fine china and making a public spectacle of his clumsiness. It was _just_ a ring. It didn't mean much. Except it did. It meant a lot. There wasn't anyone alive Clint had known longer than Phil. Natasha was close, but… Phil and Natasha were both family. And if Phil said no? If Phil said no, Clint wasn't sure where that would leave him.

His phone buzzed. "I can hear you panicking from here," Natasha had written. "I'm in the middle of New York and I know you're burning a hole through the carpet. Stop. Breathe."

Clint's lips twitched into a smile. "Stop or breathe? I can't do both."

"For that, you know exactly which one to pick."

"What if he says no?" Clint texted, trying to ignore the way his hands were shaking.

"Then he says no," Natasha replied. "It's not like he'll leave you if he isn't ready for more."

That was a good point, really. "Thanks," he sent her nervously, adjusting his suit and tie again before sitting down on the elaborate bed.

Everything in this place was either over-the-top –like the twenty throw pillows spread over the bed –or unnecessarily expensive. Those pillows were just unnecessary unless people rented out hotel rooms like these for pillow fights. Clint snagged one of the cushions, and sure enough, they were made of some sort of expensive downy feather. No doubt pillow fights would ruin these puny things and then whoever rented out the room would get charged for the destruction. But really, why twenty throw pillows?

It didn't feel like five minutes had passed before there was a knock at the door and Phil slid the key card in, letting himself in. He must have gotten ready at the airport or before coming up to the room, Clint realized belatedly. He was wearing a three piece suit, perfectly pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. Phil was stunning, as always, his hair neatly combed. And –Clint sat up casually, sniffing –he was wearing his cologne.

"Aw, I feel under dressed now," Clint teased; shoving his hands into his pockets as he got up, feeling his heart beat kick up another notch. It was going to be hours before he could ask Phil. _Hours_.

"You look great," Phil said smoothly, kissing Clint warmly.

Clint melted into his touch, kissing him back as he slid an arm around Phil's waist, intent on pulling him closer. Phil chuckled and caught Clint's hand in his, pulling back. "No need to wreck the suits this time, we have all night to get around to that," Phil said, his blue eyes dancing bemusedly. "No repeats of last time, we nearly scarred the whole place."

"Good thing I have an alias now, huh?" Clint joked. "They wouldn't have let us in otherwise."

Phil shook his head, not bothering to hide his smile. "We can be presentable for dinner tonight."

"Does this mean tomorrow we don't have to?" Clint chuckled.

"I didn't think you'd reserved us here for the weekend," Phil said, his brows lifting in surprise.

"I… didn't think that far ahead," Clint admitted with a nervous laugh, suddenly all-too aware of the weight of the box in his pocket. He'd had other things to think about. "I got a table for us tonight though, that's for sure."

"Well that's good," Phil said, amused.

Clint blushed. "Y-yeah. It's reserved at five."

"Is there a special occasion I'm not aware of?" Phil teased. "Some big day I'm missing?"

"Just missed you," Clint answered quickly, to keep from saying anything thing else. Like the fact that this day would hopefully come to have a bigger meaning than it currently had.

Phil smiled warmly, "I missed you too," he said. "And I thought you might like to know, but Scarlotti? We have him in custody now. Melinda took him down."

"Wish I'd been there for that," Clint sighed. "I hope she gave him a good beating." Scarlotti had never been kind. Where Clint had been patient and only taken a shot he knew would cause nearly instant death, Scarlotti liked drawing his victims' pain out.

"She did a good number on him," Phil explained.

Silence drifted between them as Phil set his stuff aside. It was familiar silence between them and Clint knew it was his nerves that were setting off every alarm in his head but he couldn't stand the silence. Each passing second of it, it felt like the box in his pocket was burning hot. No matter what situation Clint ran through, he wasn't sure how Phil would respond.

He moved without thinking about it, kneeling down to Phil's left as he drew out the box. "Will you marry me?" Clint blurted, his heart pounding furiously. "I-I love you, and I – I don't want to lose any more time with you." Clint paused, glancing up at Phil worried. He wasn't speaking, shit, that was bad wasn't it? His eyes were wide as he stared down at Clint. "I uh, I meant to ask you this back in New York before things…" He shrugged, keeping his balance despite the precarious wobble he performed. "Um, if you, if you don't wanna marry me, I guess that'd be… I, uh," he stuttered, staring at his feet, unwilling to meet Phil's eyes again for fear of the sympathy he would see there.

"You meant to ask after dinner and dancing didn't you?" Phil asked, his voice strangled.

"I, yeah…"

"You – you planned this all out…"

"And totally fucked it up," Clint said, wincing. "Look we, we can just pretend this never happened, alright? I can ask, later, or not," he muttered, about to get to his feet.

This had been such a bad idea. Such a monumental bad idea, of course Phil wasn't gonna say yes, when Clint hadn't even gotten the proposal right. But it wasn't like it was the first time he'd thrown his plans out the window. It was nowhere near the first time really. Actually, considering how long they had worked together –Clint glanced at Phil hesitantly, holding his position. Phil didn't look sad or apologetic, he just looked awestruck. A lot awestruck.

"Of course I'll marry you," Phil breathed out, still staring at Clint like he couldn't believe this was really happening. Clint was having some difficulty with accepting that too, honestly.

Phil opened the box with a shaky hand, helping Clint up with his other hand. He still hadn't put the ring on but Clint found it hard to care when Phil kissed him. "I love you," he murmured, smiling tenderly as he slid the ring on.

Clint flushed. "I uh, was going to ask after the whole romancing part of the evening had happened…"

Phil chuckled softly. "It's more us this way," he said patiently. "And now the romancing will be more like a celebration." He pecked him sweetly, squeezing his hand lightly.

They weren't big on PDA. It was mostly habit at this point, after so many years of dating in the workplace. Neither of them had been in the mood to deal with accusations of favoritism or worse.

"We could probably head down to dinner, if you wanted?" Clint offered.

"In a minute," Phil murmured, leaning in to kiss Clint thoroughly.

They were nearly fifteen minutes late to their dinner reservation, but neither of them really cared. Phil was proud of the fact that he had managed to keep their suits un-rumpled despite their distraction upstairs in the hotel room. Clint grinned at his fiancé helplessly, taking a discrete picture and sending it to Nat.

Her reply was almost instantaneous. "You couldn't wait could you?"

"No," he texted back, without looking away from Phil.

"Congrats," she replied.

"Natasha?" Phil guessed.

"She sends her congratulations."

Phil smiled softly and they chatted a little about unimportant things in their lives. Clint talked about how mope-y Lucky had been since Phil had left and how Bucky had settled in at his place before heading out to see New York and find himself. Hopefully that went well for him. And then, before he even knew it, they were finished dinner and Phil was watching Clint amusedly, his eyes twinkling as he got up.

"May I have this dance, fiancé?" he asked, offering his hand to Clint.

"I'll try not to crush your toes," Clint said, accepting his hand and letting Phil lead him out to the dance floor.

There were some other couples out there already; some of them looked like they were professionals practically with the elaborate moves they were exhibiting. Dancing with Phil was easy. It was something Clint had never done before and, for the most part, didn't like doing it. He was clumsy and as likely to step on Phil's feet as not. But Phil was patient. Last time they were here, Phil had made sure Clint knew how to dance a waltz. He stumbled through the first half a dozen steps, following Phil's impeccable lead (honestly, Phil was the one who did all the work and somehow made it look like Clint was a halfway decent dancer –he was not). But Phil was patient and with a few reminders, soon they were waltzing comfortably around the dance floor with the other couples twirling around them.

They danced a few more times, surrounded by the other couples and the professional dancer before they headed back to their room. It was too much physical contact and yet not enough at all. They headed up to their room, practically pressed together in the elevator before hurrying out and back into their room. They spent the week tangled up in each other, their phones out of the way and thankfully undisturbed as they made love.

The third day of their weeklong vacation, Clint woke up to find Phil carving unintelligible signs onto the dining room table. Phil didn't seem to be aware that he was doing it at all, as he focused on making each individual notch just right. Which, well, Phil could probably cover the bill for that. Hopefully. Clint got out of bed, grabbing some scrap paper from the nightstand and a pen. Phil didn't protest as Clint plucked the knife from his grasp and set the pen into his hand, shoving the papers under his hand. Phil didn't seem to be aware of any difference as he started to continue on the papers.

Clint crouched on the end of their bed, watching Phil. Of course there had to be a cost for Phil to return to life. If this was it? If his boyfriend –fiancé –was going to have to wake up in the middle of the night and start wood carving, Clint didn't care. Phil probably hated it, Clint knew. It was a loss of control and centered on the unknown origins of Phil's revival. Neither of them had _really_ discussed it. Clint didn't really care how Phil had come back to life –he just cared that Phil had. Because some damaged wood was repairable, replaceable. But Phil wasn't. And it wasn't like Phil was going to kill himself doing this either, it was just a compulsion. But where had the compulsion come from? And had Phil been hiding it this whole time? Because it wasn't necessary. Clint didn't care. He had Phil.

Phil kept at it all night, drawing lines and circles on the papers spread across the table in front of him. Some of his pen strokes were so hard they nearly went through the paper; in a few spots the paper was actually ripped, but at least the table hadn't taken any more damage. Phil seemed to come back to himself abruptly around mid-morning, the pen dropping from his hand and clattering loudly as it rolled across the table. Clint caught it before it fell to the floor, glancing at Phil.

"I –Clint –I'm so sorry."

"For what?" Clint interrupted. "I don't care why. I can get you paper and pens and stop you from damaging property. I just. You're alive, right? That's the important thing here."

Phil seemed to hesitate, nodding slowly. "Yes…"

"And this drawing isn't killing you? Or leading you to your death?"

"Well, no," Phil admitted. "It just. I might physically live but… it, the medicine they gave me; this is a sign that I'm slowly going insane."

Clint frowned. "I dunno Phil," he said, making an effort to keep his voice lighthearted, "doodling like a five year old… there's worse ways to go insane. Just imagine having to work with Tony all the time. I thought for sure he would have driven you to madness."

Phil chuckled despite himself. "It's a bit more complicated than that."

"Nah," Clint said confidently, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You survived Tony's insanity and you even survived dying. I think you can beat this, whatever's going on. I know your team is good; you've got Melinda and all the resources at S.H.I.E.L.D plus the Avengers. If it gets bad, we can try Tony or Bruce or something. There's time, right? Hope?"

Phil paused, sinking back into the chair. "I suppose there is that."

Clint grinned, kissing him playfully. "Good. Remember that. Now come back to bed."

Phil explained in detail what he knew about his survival as they cuddled up on the bed. It still hadn't changed Clint's mind and he said as much. Phil was alive. He was going to be alive for a while. They could deal with his insanity as it came, if it came. The compulsion to start carving into things wasn't exactly that threatening to his sanity at this time, as far as Clint was concerned. Phil was going to be just fine. If he wasn't, they could deal with it as the problem came up.

The rest of their holiday was spectacular and happily uninterrupted. Clint did his best to convince Phil to stay in bed, tangled up with him but Phil had other plans. Sightseeing plans and the like of which Clint was sadly unable to keep him in bed, so he walked with Phil from each local tourist spot to the next. They weren't really impressive. But then it was hard to find much about his home country impressive when he had spent half his life traveling the world –Clint had seen the pyramids and even Stonehenge. Not up close but from the corner of his eye while on a mission in Egypt and England respectively. Things in the States didn't really compare and he knew Phil mostly felt the same. Phil was just more open to trying to see if anything could impress him. The Grand Canyon would've been a good one, but neither of them had the time to drive to see it. Instead they bought their lunches at a nearby food stand, chatted about inane things before they headed back to the hotel for their last night.

This time, when Clint dragged Phil back to bed, Phil didn't argue. He didn't even try to. Instead they fell onto the bed, naked and wrapped up in each other. Clint almost regretted the fact of how long it had taken them to get together because if they had known earlier, had realized it sooner, they would have had a few years more at doing this. But really, it was perfect just the way it was. They were going to get married one day. Clint was perfectly happy with that, with having Phil.


	12. I Will Wait

I Will Wait

Clint stood at the stove, wearing just his sweatpants. Phil was resting upstairs –he'd gotten in late the night before, banged and bruised up. And Bucky was making use of one of his guest rooms again. Thankfully the contractor he'd hired was a miracle worker because the addition had been built on and –since Barnes had showed up here, circles heavy under his eyes, Clint hadn't seen the guy –he didn't have to worry about anyone overhearing anything.

He really didn't want to interfere in Bucky's life. The guy deserved some peace and quiet after seventy years of never having it. But, he was worried. He hadn't seen Barnes this out of it since he showed up here, somewhere between James Barnes and the Winter Soldier. It was difficult to get a gauge on him when he never showed his face.

Clint threw together the omelets hastily, carrying one plate up to his own bedroom. He smiled softly at Phil, just able to make out his prone form on the bed. He silently slid the plate onto the nightstand table along with the glass of orange juice. Clint then carried the other plate down the hallway before raising his hand to knock. Bucky opened the door first though, and there still circles sitting heavily under his eyes. His stubble was practically a beard and Clint was pretty sure he was still wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing when he came back.

"Brought you breakfast," Clint said.

Bucky glanced at the plate before looking back at Clint. "I slept with Steve."

Clint felt his mouth drop open.

"I slept with _Steve_," Bucky repeated. "And he – he said he loved me. How can he love me?" Bucky shook his head, clearly agitated. "I – I don't deserve him."

"That's… y'know, it's up to Steve, really, how he feels," Clint stuttered out, holding onto the plate like a lifeline.

What was this? This was why Clint didn't get involved in people's personal problems. He should have just crawled back into bed with Phil. He should have. Phil never had personal life crises this early in the morning. Only world-ending ones but that was kind of in the job description and fixable. Go out and shoot the bad guys. Clint didn't think Bucky shooting Steve would fix anything. Unless maybe Bucky was naked with a Cupid's bow? Clint cringed at the thought alone –he didn't want to be thinking about that. Nope. Not thinking about it.

"He _can't_ love me," Bucky growled. "I've done horrible things. I nearly killed him."

Clint ran through options of what he could say. He wasn't really coming up with much. But Bucky was still looking at him like he was _expecting_ Clint to say something, to have some vitally important wisdom. Clint did not. Clint really, really did not. He was barely even awake.

"But you didn't?" he offered, hoping it sounded less like a question.

Bucky blinked at that, nodding slowly. "I… I didn't," he agreed, something like wonder creeping into his voice.

"And, y'know, Steve's a good guy. He knows what's up. If uh, if Steve loves you, I'm sure you can't have done anything that bad as far as Steve's concerned. You're… you, right now," Clint explained awkwardly.

Someone needed to shut him up. Who in their right mind would come to him for relationship advice? He needed something alcoholic. Fuck, it was too early for that. Extra coffee, then.

Bucky nodded slowly, frowning. "He's not going to be happy with me…"

"Well, have a good breakfast," Clint interrupted, pushing the plate with the omelet towards Bucky hopefully. "And good luck with Steve. I'm sure it'll be fine. It's Steve." How bad could it be?

Bucky took the plate, blinking incredulously at Clint. "I left him. After we slept together. He said he loved me. He woke up without me there… He's going to be on a righteous path of fury."

"Well do you love him?" Clint demanded, exasperated. "Because if you do, it'll be fine. Just tell him that, okay?"

Bucky gave a slow nod, turning his attention back to the plate. He stepped back into his room, shutting the door slowly. "Thanks," he muttered.

Clint hoped it was thanks for the omelet and not that disaster. What even. Running a hand through his hair, he headed downstairs and paused when he saw Phil standing at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in his hand. Shit, Clint needed caffeine and a lot of it. So much.

"Why is Captain Rogers outside chopping wood?" Phil asked, his gaze focused outside.

"What?!" Clint asked, spinning to look out the window. Chopping wood? That was putting it… mildly.

Sure enough, Captain America was standing over a pile of firewood, ripping the logs in half. By the pile of wood at his feet and the abandoned axe, Clint was relatively sure Steve was just saving time on the whole process. Hopefully. His white shirt was stretched tight and his muscles were bunching up as he ripped the logs in half. Clint felt himself lean back heavily against the kitchen table.

"I need a drink," Clint complained.

Phil glanced at him, eyebrows arched suspiciously.

"Okay so. So Steve might be under the wrong impression? About me? Or about Bucky? Y'know, I'm not really sure but I don't think I should talk to him. And he's being productive. We'll have enough wood to last through the winter."

Phil quirked an amused smile. "Because you plan on vacationing here through winter?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "It could happen. I wouldn't want to disturb him."

"Captain Rogers has better things to do than chop wood for us, Clint."

Clint winced at the disapproval in Phil's voice. "'Course, sir," he said, his voice falsely bright with cheer. "I'll just go out and tell him you and I got engaged and I'm not vying for his man." Clint paused, thinking: _I really hope he listens first…_

"His… man…?"

"Yeah. Barnes," Clint said, distractedly. He frowned out the window as he watched Stark and Banner cluck fearfully, fluffing their feathers out as they circled away from Steve nervously. "He's scaring my chickens," Clint said, outraged. "Captain America is scaring my chickens."

Phil choked. "S-Sergeant Barnes and –?"

Clint nodded absently, throwing his coat on. "Banner's gonna start breathing fire at this rate," he growled, exasperatedly as he marched outside. "Rogers!" he shouted. (From a safe distance away, the most Steve could do would be throw one of the logs at him. Clint was hoping he wouldn't do it.)

Steve stopped, looking over at Clint as he snapped the chunk of wood into a smaller half. Jesus, those pieces were huge. They'd barely fit the fireplace. "Barton," he greeted voice tight.

"You're scaring my chickens," Clint announced, gesturing at them. "You don't want Banner to get upset."

"Banner…?" Steve asked, looking around. "Bruce is here? I thought he was at Tony's…?"

"No, ah, the chicken?" Clint admitted, gesturing at her. "The white one is Banner, the reddish one is Stark."

Steve blinked and turned to look at the chickens. Banner was clucking, pacing anxiously, her feathers ruffled up. Beside her Stark was clucking agitatedly, standing in front of her as though she could keep Banner safe from Steve.

Steve turned back to Clint. "Hawkeye, a-are you alright?" he asked, observing Clint worriedly.

"I'm great, Rogers, really," he drawled. "It got a bit lonely for a while though." He paused. "Did you want a tour?" Clint hadn't actually had anyone out as a guest other than Phil. (Bucky didn't count; he didn't catch on to the naming pattern or just never commented on it; it was hard to say.)

Steve hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, sure."

"So that's Banner and Stark," Clint said redundantly. "Over there is Tasha," he said, pointing at the grey lump perched atop the fence post. Tasha didn't even look up. "Thunder God," he said, waving a hand at the cow. "Uh that's Buchanan and Steven… and here's Lucky," he finished, petting his dog.

Steve nodded slowly. "I-I see?"

Silence drifted between them, thick and awkward.

"So… are you here to see Bucky? He'll be down soon, I think."

Clint hoped so. He really hoped so.

"Why is he here?" Steve asked, squaring his shoulders. "I didn't even know you had a farm."

"Recent development," Clint answered warily. "And you should probably ask him that yourself."

Steve opened his mouth, on the verge of saying something when his eyes widened and he stared over Clint's shoulder. Turning around revealed that Barnes was standing there, his arms crossed defensively over his chest as he scowled at Steve. At least Clint hoped it was directed at Steve because he couldn't think of anything he might have done to piss Barnes off. It wasn't like he had invited Steve _here_ and he wasn't just going to run the guy off because Barnes had screwed up either.

"Hey," Clint said awkwardly. "I'll let you guys catch up." Yeah, that glare was definitely directed at Clint now. He walked towards the house quickly.

"Buck," came Steve's voice, stern and disapproving all rolled into one.

Not a conversation Clint was keen to listen to. He shut the door, maybe a little louder than necessary. Phil was still standing in the kitchen, his eyes wide as he watched out the window.

"When did that happen?" Phil asked, gesturing at the window as he turned to Clint.

"I'm really not sure and I don't think I want to know either. It's too early for this," Clint complained, dropping onto a kitchen chair. He swiped Phil's coffee mug, taking a long swig.

Phil huffed fondly. "Get your own coffee."

"Too early for this," Clint countered. "I've had to sort out relationship drama. I deserve all the coffee."

"Oh you do, do you?"

"Yes," Clint answered vehemently, taking another long drink of Phil's coffee. It was a little too sweet for his tastes, but it was coffee. Pure, sweet caffeine.

He didn't want to look outside or think about what was going on there. Vaguely he realized that if things went badly, it wasn't entirely impossible that Barnes would blame the catastrophe on Clint. This could go quite badly for Clint, really. Not to mention Steve. Clint shuddered and finished off Phil's coffee.

"Who's the injured one here?" Phil complained.

Clint glanced at him. "Just a few bumps and bruises, you said."

"The coffee was helping," Phil said, his lips twitching in a smile.

Clint arched a brow at him. "Really? Were you pouring it on your bruises?"

Phil rolled his eyes. "I was relaxing with my cup of coffee."

Clint smirked. "I can think of better ways to relax."

Phil smiled back, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "I'm sure you can."

"We could get to it right now. The bedroom or the bathroom, if you wanted. I'm sure Captain Rogers and Barnes will have better things to keep them occupied with."

"No," Phil said firmly, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "Not happening."

"Aww Phil," Clint said, pouting at him playfully. "I hardly get to see you. A little company shouldn't mat –"

Phil's glare of disapproval silenced Clint. He gave a sigh. As if it wasn't bad enough that world crises would cock-block him, or Natasha. Now it was probably the rest of the Avengers.

"You should move in," Clint found himself saying, not really thinking. He froze. "If y'know, that was something you wanted."

Phil blinked and smiled slowly. "It is something I want."

Clint flushed. "Well, good."

Phil chuckled softly, walking over to Clint. He set his hand over Clint's, his coffee cup held in his other hand. "I thought I was already living here. If I'm not on the Bus, I'm here. I thought you knew that."

Clint could feel the heat crawling up his cheeks. "I hadn't really thought about it…"

Phil leaned down, pecking his cheek. "It can be official now."

Clint relaxed back against his chair, relishing Phil's presence. He watched his fiancé warmly, waiting until he was taking a drink of his coffee. "We should celebrate, get you nice and relaxed," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Phil rolled his eyes, ruffling Clint's hair as he moved away. "No."

"But –"

"No," Phil said, cutting him off smoothly.

Clint grinned and hid it behind his coffee cup as he drained it. He gave a dramatic sigh, watching as Phil turned away to glance out the window. What he didn't expect was Phil to choke on his drink and turn away just as quickly from the window, drawing the curtains shut without a second look.

"They've made up," Phil explained, his cheeks bright red.

"They're making out in my backyard aren't they?"

"Front lawn," Phil corrected.

Clint shot him a look. "Same difference."

"But yes, they are."

Clint sighed again, loudly. "I'm sure Tony will have fun with all this. Living in the tower with them."

"They were separated for seventy years," Phil pointed out. "Imagine how you and I would be."

Clint smirked. "Probably like we were last week? With all our celebrating after fifteen years…"

Phil rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Clint got up, crowding Phil back against the counter before he kissed him. He was working towards leaving Phil breathless before giving him another try to see if they could actually head back to their bedroom when the door opened and Captain Rogers walked in.

Clint pulled back, stifling the urge to groan and bang his head against the counter. "Steve," he said. "My fiancé, Phil. I think you've met before."

"Sir," Steve said, obviously caught off guard, looking between Clint and Phil. "I didn't –I thought you had died."

"I did," Phil said, adjusting his shirt. The tips of his ears were pink. "I'm under orders."

Steve smiled knowingly, glancing at Clint pointedly. "Orders?"

"The Avengers aren't supposed to know," Phil stated.

"Half the team knows now," Clint pointed out, unhelpfully.

Phil shot him an irritated glance. "I suppose they do now."

"Fury planned this," Steve said, his brows furrowing in disapproval.

"Yes."

Clint glanced away.

"And you were… okay with this?" Steve asked, clearly addressing Clint.

"Not really," he mumbled under his breath.

It was a topic he mostly avoided thinking about or dealing with. Phil had already broken orders. For him. And not much beyond that mattered. Phil was here, alive; wearing the ring Clint had bought for him. That was what did matter.

"We worked some things out," Phil said quietly, hesitantly reaching out to Clint.

Clint caught Phil's hand in his own, squeezing gently in reassurance. He was okay. "It's between us now. If the other Avengers have an issue with it they can talk with Phil. Or Fury, if they wanted to. But I hear he's been hard to find recently."

Steve gave a slow nod before glancing behind him, where Barnes was standing. An awkward tension surrounded the entire room.

"So," Clint said, drawing out the vowel sound. "Anyone up for breakfast?"

"I can cook," Steve volunteered immediately.

"No thank you, Captain Rogers," Phil said politely. "You've already cut the firewood for us. It's the least we can do. Sit down."

"Coffee?" Clint offered smoothly, turning towards the machine with his own empty mug.

"Please," Steve said, glancing nervously at Bucky.

From the corner of his eye Clint could see the way Bucky smiled back, relaxed and at ease. It was good to see him looking better. The dark circles were still present under his eyes but he was obviously feeling better. His shoulders weren't tense and he looked more like Bucky than James.

"I'll have one too, if it's no trouble," Bucky said.

"You're always trouble," Clint shot back.

Bucky snorted. "You say that like you're not the one who challenged me to shaving my hair off."

"That's why you cut your hair?" Steve asked laughter in his voice.

"Shut up," Bucky grumbled, but he was smiling as he took the seat next to Steve.

Clint poured their mugs of coffee, handing them over black before pushing the sugar and creamer canisters towards them. It felt a little bit like a family, really. They were only missing Natasha. He wondered if this was what was it was like at Tony's tower, whether the billionaire had the same feelings about the Avengers as Clint found himself. Phil leaned over; pecking his cheek and Clint was thoroughly distracted from the rest of his thoughts as he helped Phil with breakfast while Steve and Bucky bantered.


End file.
